Subtlety
by MadRabbit
Summary: Caveat lector. Just when you think you have reached the summit, another mountain appears. Once nameless, once called 'Boy', he finds fame as Dracule Mihawk. Part XV: Having encountered pirates of all kinds, Mihawk meets his match in the Blind-eye pirates and a prediction of certain death.
1. Part I: Boy

**Pulling Strings is still alive. Trust me. This just...isn't it.**

* * *

**This story is an ambition. I've only seen past-fic done well ONCE, and the author was really exceptional. ****I am not exceptional. But hopefully this is worth the read anyway... **

**This is for all the people who believe there are no mysterious beautiful women in Mihawk's past, to be blunt.**

* * *

Part I: Boy

_"The Past is to be respected and acknowledged, but not to be worshiped. It is our future in which we will find our greatness." -Pierre Trudeau (1919 - 2000)_

He grew up in a tiny village that no one had ever heard of. He remembered gray skies (always) and dirt. Green things did not grow there. Not real green things, anyway—just sickly, yellowish things with bulbous white protuberances buried beneath their inedible tops. Before anything could be done with them, they generally died.

And there was the grain, of course. Lots of grain. Every single job in the village had to do with grain—this was no exaggeration. It was how they stayed alive, and apprenticeships were categorized by different jobs having to do with grain.

He had a knack with a scythe. Any scythe. People marveled over it, in fact, when they weren't occupied with trying not to look at him. When he was bored, he would enter the Contests with a purposely-dulled blade and invariably win. The other boys would glare and mutter, but if they were that clueless, they deserved a defeat. It wasn't _luck_. It was a _touch_. There was a difference, and he knew it. There's a certain tilt that won't make your scythe catch in the stalks, a twist that will break the most stubborn and interfering of weeds. And they would all tug and swear at their tangled blades, and he would casually work his way down the line with just enough care. That was all it took. Just enough care to watch and just enough of that _touch_ to outpace the rest.

It wasn't really the scythe work that made the other boys hate him. It was the way he acted; it was as though he was an adult in a child's skin. The kinder men and women—there were very few of these-called him "distant". The less kind ones—of whom there were an alarming amount-said he was "arrogant and unnatural". And the majority of them just muttered obscenities under their breath as he passed, glaring at him.

It was his eyes. He knew that innately, and he didn't particularly care. He didn't care much about anything. The people here held no interest for him, and the grain and tuberous plants held even less.

And then, when he was fourteen (or maybe fifteen), it all started.

Traders stopped by the island quite often—otherwise they would all have been dead by then, with their grain-mentality. The merchants brought metal and wood and food that could actually be eaten by humans. He didn't _like_ them, per se, but they seemed at least to have souls.

One day, the blacksmith appeared. His boat seemed small and battered among the flashy merchants' ships, and the mast was crooked. The sails had little rips and nicks in them, like a street cat's ears. There was no use for weapons in the tiny village that no one had ever heard of. In fact, such things were shunned, along with their makers.

The freak boy had suggested once, in an offhand sort of way, that perhaps it would be enough just to have a few weapons—to let people know not to mess with you. And he'd received the usual stares and muttered curses, and a woman nearby had pulled her child away, glaring at him as though he was waving a gun at the girl.

It would have been depressing if he'd cared.

On that particular day, he had glanced once at the worn little boat, frowned a little, and strode on, heading for work.

It wasn't an apprenticeship. The man, whose name he didn't know and didn't care about, was far too afraid of losing his status to call it that. It was "free labor", and he could often be heard complaining loudly that he hadn't _wanted_ to take on that freak boy, but what choice did he have, with the winter coming on?

And the freak boy, standing in the crowd, had watched the man for a few seconds, intensifying his gaze, letting that edge of resolve build inside him, until his employer sensed it and turned. And then the boy had smiled. It was a thin smile, stretched over thin, pale lips, and it didn't come anywhere near his unnatural eyes. And the man had turned and run.

The boy picked up his scythe at the rough wooden gate, swinging the panel open with one deft hand and swinging it closed behind him. He left it unlatched, though, letting the cord loop hang limp next to its dull iron hook. Let the animals get in, if there were even any on the island that wanted to eat the foul grain.

He was barefoot, trudging through the soft, cool ground, clayish dirt building between his already filthy toes. He liked being clean, but there was honestly no way that he was going to stay that way for long in this place. So he squished his way steadily through the field, swinging absentmindedly at the swaying stalks, letting the wooden handle become an extension of his pale, wiry arms.

He noticed the man watching him only when he sent out a pulse of _danger_—that edge of resolve that the island boy had hitherto never experienced outside of himself. It was frightening, and yet exhilarating at the same time. It was…exciting that someone else could emit that sense of purpose, that someone else possessed such a focused soul. Except… it was far more dangerous than anything the boy had ever put out to attract attention. There was true intent to kill in that wave of emotion, and for that fraction of a second, he truly thought he was going to die.

And then the feeling was gone and so was the man, trudging along down the road, shaking his head and pulling down the wide-brimmed leather hat that sat snugly over his head. Everything about him looked battered, thought the boy, watching him leave with a shameful surge of relief. He suppressed this emotion and went back to work, putting more fluidity into his strokes so that he had more mind space to think. Who was that man, anyway? A merchant, obviously. _Someone_ not from here. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to do _that_.

A few minutes later, because the task had grown troublesome, he pushed past the gate and leaned his scythe neatly against the fence. Then, because the man he worked for despised it, he checked to make sure that the gate had not locked behind him.

Satisfied, he set off to wander through the village, the dry, yellow-ish grass prickling the soles of his feet, a damp, cool wind—brushed in from the sea—ruffling the thin shag of his black hair.

The boys who started following him when he entered the village were not so hard to notice. They were noisy, for one thing. He could hear their breath and the brush of cloth on cloth as they moved. And he heard them plotting. One of them had a knife. It was not, from what he could tell as he listened, a particularly interesting knife—just an ordinary blade used in the kitchen. No _focus _there, no _drive_. None of the right amount of care and no touch whatsoever.

There were a lot of them, and one of them had a knife. It should have been intimidating.

But he was bored.

When he finally slowed down and turned down a grimy, airless side street, they were all brimming with anticipation of the attack. But there was no real focus there, just a dull, uninteresting need to _hurt_. If they had known anything about the real world, they would have known that it was enough just to win. But brutality is an unfortunate tendency carried by those who are easily unnerved by the strange, and in this village there was an inordinate amount of easily unnerved people.

He turned around.

They were all watching him. The one with the knife was pointing it at him. There were still breadcrumbs on the thing's blade, and the boy with odd eyes suddenly knew quite distinctly that it was not at all happy about doing this job. Oh, you could convince it if you had just the _right_ touch, a little persuasiveness and the right sort of mastery. But it wasn't going to cut very well.

They were waiting for him to make a move. One of them might or might not have asked him sneeringly whether he was going to run away. He hadn't been listening. He rarely listened to ignorant people, as most of what they had to say was pure and unadulterated idiocy anyway.

"Finally," he said, in his light, hoarse monotone. "Took you long enough to get up the nerve."

The jibe wasn't really _meant_. He just needed to stir them into action. And it did. He had known it wouldn't take much-they hated him (or they thought they did). They loathed him for his eyes and his hair and the way he walked and the clothes he wore. They despised his lofty demeanor and poverty and his inexplicable skill with a scythe and his namelessness.

Funny little people and their petty little hates. He didn't bother to duck the first blow—just tipped his head to one side and slammed his head into the other boy's as the fist blurred past his temple, grazing his hair.

It hurt. A lot. The head butt, that was. He felt like his skull was splitting open, but there was never going to be any room for finesse anyway. Drop, turn, and kick the other boy's feet out from under him.

There were four others. He beat down two of them with a minimum of interest, acquiring a bloody nose in the process. His back and face were clammy with sweat, and his shirt scratched at his skin. He had just begun to back away to give himself some room to move in when one of the remaining attackers, the one with the kitchen knife, shifted. Preparing to stab.

Ordinarily, he would have dodged. But for that split-second, he saw for a moment how he could just tell the reluctant blade _no_, and he raised one commanding hand.

The feeling vanished as swiftly as it had come, and was followed by a numb chill as the knife passed through his palm and out the other side. There wasn't any pain—why was that?

But there was no time to consider that. He jerked the blade out of his own hand, and there was a slight pang as it withdrew from the wound. The pain was coming. He raised the knife, closed his eyes and pressed his lips to it, cold metal and hot blood making his skin tingle.

The boys were terrified, but tried not to show it. The freakish boy had just become even more disturbing, and people like that deserved to die, said their muddled brains.

The kitchen knife twanged and clattered on the road. He didn't need it.

One of his attackers shouted something that he certainly wouldn't have said in front of his mother and ran forward, belligerence pushing aside his fear, arm drawn back.

Oh, and, suddenly, there was the pain. It seared his arm like a wire over raw nerves, shattering his focus, and the fist sank into his solar plexus, adding to the confusion and taking the hurt up a notch. It throbbed in his skull now, burned in his hand, curled in his gut. He vomited, dropping into an unbalanced crouch, eyes watering.

"Not so tough now, are you?" No need for them to stay away anymore, now that he was on the ground. Nothing to be afraid of _now_.

A foot collided with his skull, hurling his world into a sparkling black and white static-scape. Agony exploded behind his temples, and he opened his mouth to scream. He might have—he might not. He couldn't hear anything through the keening in his ears. But he felt the sound scrape against his throat and he heard the _laughter_ very clearly. That was worse than blades or fists, worse than pain. And right there, hunched on the cold, hard ground of the cramped side-street, he knew that he had to find that point, that perfect zenith of power, at which no one would laugh at him, where mocking him would be unthinkable.

A heel collided with the back of his head, and something crunched as his face was thrust deliberately into the rough pavement. His throat was clogged with blood now.

"You don't belong here!" his tormentor informed him, as though it was the worst insult in the world.

"Well, of _course_ he doesn't," said a light, gravelly voice. "If this boy was part of your posse of twattering nitwits, the world would be an even more pathetic place. Whose blood is that on the unfortunate blade, incidentally?"

There was a pause as one of the boys took hesitant initiative in the face of an unexpected witness. "I…I…He attacked—"

"Children's fatuity increases in tedium as I grow older." There was a _smack_ and a yelp. "Answer the question."

"I—what? The kni…I mean, it's mine! Or, I mean, I mean—"

"You're abusing a kitchen knife?"

"I—what?"

"That," said the mysterious man, "is disappointing."

The semi-conscious boy felt fingers dig into the shag of his hair, hauling unceremoniously into a sitting position.

"A…_grief_, boy, what were you thinking?"

For a moment, the nameless one thought that this new arrival was speaking to him, but it then became apparent that the mysterious man had directed the words at the remaining assailants.

"A broken _nose_? Is that finesse? Is that subtlety?" There was another yelp, and then a _thump_, as of a human body falling to the ground. "I think not. That's not _purpose_, that's mindless nastiness. _Stupid_ mindless nastiness."

Blood was sliding down his upper lip and the back of his throat, and it was becoming hard to breathe. _"Nkhgnnnn."_

His head was jerked roughly back. "Just stay like that. You'll run out of blood in a while."

Not completely certain that this was a good thing, the boy did as he was told, resisting the urge to cough. A few seconds later, he though he felt a little bit ill. And…_light_.

* * *

He woke up.

He turned over—_it hurts_.

He vomited.

"Ah, you're awake," said the voice. "Incidentally, you're going to clean that up. This ship barely accommodates me, and I'm not fond of the idea of sharing it with the stench of your stomach contents. What have you been eating? That is most foul."

His throat contracted painfully and, his legs cramping at the sudden movement, he scrambled forward mindlessly—ship? Sea. Throw up in the—too late.

"_Grief_," said the voice wearily. What a singularly bizarre expletive.

A moment later, a rough hand gripped the collar of the boy's shirt and dragged him, coughing and retching, to a hard wooden edge, whereupon he continued with the unpleasant activity until the sudden illness had apparently wrenched out all of his stomach's contents.

"Good," said the voice, and hauled him back onboard. "Now, I need you to fix the sails. There's a nasty rip in the one up front."

"Huh?" said the boy, at a loss for anything else to say.

"You heard me. I've got some cord and one of those ludicrously large needles around her someplace…"

"But I only—I mean—"

"You sound like one of those brutes I found you occupying yourself with. Stop stuttering and say something properly or do not speak at all."

The boy paused, unaccustomed to such treatment. Being seen as a dangerous adult had altered his already unusual view of the world. Now that this strange man was actually talking to him as though he was a normal child, he wasn't quite sure what to say.

He managed, "Don't you…even know what those sails are called?"

"Why should I?"

No reply came to mind. The boy stood up, trying to recall the poise he had found so easily on his home island, that sense of being a wolf in a flock of sheep (not that he'd ever seen a sheep apart from the stamp on the packages of meat from the merchants). It didn't come. Instead, he just felt a sharp jolt of pain as his legs crumpled underneath him and his skinny knees struck the rough wood of the deck.

"And I'll deign to make the first few days easy for you," said the man generously. "I'm actually going to fetch the cloth for you and drop it on you so that you can labor without moving. Try not to strain your eyes—a broken nose can be potentially harmful to the sinuses."

It was very peculiar to hear someone refer to his eyes without including some sort of curse or jibe. He wasn't sure how to feel about it, and was still considering this sudden development when a heap of heavy canvas flopped onto his head.

"There you go. And here is your fabulous length of crude, pointy iron, through which you will thread…" something hard bounced off of the boy's obscured form, leaving a patch of aching skin on his shoulder. "…a length of impossibly stiff cord from this bobbin. Having done so, you will seek out the gash in the sail and repair it with due haste, which will require you to discover some way to pierce the cloth of the sail, which should be entertaining to watch, as it ought to be something like sewing up bread with a pickle. All of this should take you at least until tomorrow night, at which point you will be well-rested and ready to scrub the deck until it is clear of this sudden mess."

A pause.

"Assent, please."  
There was more silence as the boy struggled to find his way out of the deep, entangling folds of canvas.

"I'll take that as a yes. Start working or your life will be abruptly and unpleasantly devoid of food."

By the time the boy had emerged from the sail, taking deep, grateful breaths in the absence of the stuffy heat, the man was gone.

He wasn't quite sure he wanted food, after the events following his awakening. On the other hand, he would almost certainly be hungry later.

He set to work.

The needle was indeed quite crude, and also almost impossibly hard to thread with the tough, fraying cord. He stopped counting how many attempts it took him after the fortieth time the stuff split as he tried to press it through the hole of the needle.

It was late evening when he finally tried to sew with his laboriously threaded needle, and he found immediately that it was just as his mysterious caretaker had said: it was like trying to mend bread with a pickle.

A few hours later, he had found a way to force the needle through the canvas. It was a long process, which involved creating a dent in the thick cloth and then worming it through the closely-knit weave of the stuff.

Eventually, it became very dark. This, the boy recalled, pulling out of his stupor, was called _night_. Then he felt like an idiot for having to think about it. He had gotten in about two stitches' worth of mending, and the loops of thread were messy and uneven. He tried not to think about what the finished product might look like. His impaled hand, which hadn't bothered him throughout the whole process, began to throb.

Just as the pain became nearly unbearable, a clay bowl spun wildly over the wooden floorboards of the upper deck and trundled to a halt near the edge of the limp folds of the sail. It was full of something yellow. The boy gave it a cautious look, frowned in the direction it had come from (nothing there; how odd), and picked it up, curiosity making him forget the agony for a moment. There was no sign of an eating utensil. There were two odd pieces of wood sticking out of it, like incense or something. He picked these out, examined them, and threw them overboard; remembering belatedly as they vanished over the rail that he probably should have asked the man before doing this.

Oh, well. The yellow stuff looked edible and smelled sweet, if a little acidic. He raised the bowl to his mouth and took a cautious sip of the juice. It was some kind of fruit-that was certain…

A few minutes later, he had finished the whole bowl, and considered, a little morosely, that it might have been better had he slowed his consumption to savor the meal.

"Good, right?"

The man was standing right beside him. The boy nearly yelped, and then caught himself. He glared up at his mysterious benefactor, whose expression, even in the encroaching darkness, suggested that he had noticed the unvoiced cry of surprise.

"What…was that stuff?" the boy asked, trying to sound cold. It had always come naturally before. Now he was having difficulty acting like himself. Hovering in the back of his mind was the vague and uncomfortable suspicion that he was somehow out of his league.

"That," said the man amiably, "was piiiiiiiiineapple."

"…Excuse me?" Ah, yes. Coldness. He had it, for a moment there.

"Piiiiiiiiineapple from the Grand Line."

"The…?"

The man gave him a look that suggested he was seeing him for the first time. "Exactly what do you know about the world, kid?"

The boy opened his mouth to give an obvious answer (_There's an ocean. There are islands._), but stopped himself, frowned, and stared up at the sky. "…Nothing," he said slowly.

"Good. Let me tell you, then."

He was told about the world until late into the night. Eventually, he began to fall asleep and was cuffed when his head dropped onto his chest. He learned about the Grand Line and pirates and the four Blues and the millions of islands and Log Poses. Oh, and Gol D. Roger, the Pirate King. All of the important things, the man said.

"So you've been there. And you came back." The boy saturated the words with skepticism—after all, this old merchant with his battered little boat could hardly have ventured _that _far onto the alleged "most dangerous seas in the world" _and_ come back again. Speaking of which…

"And how _did _you get back? The Log Pose doesn't work that way, does it?"

"No, it does not," said the man gruffly. "Mine broke when I crashed rather nastily, thanks to an enormous cyclone, which caused me to fly neatly over the Calm Belt. It may not sound possible, but, believe me, it is."

"So, basically, you're completely helpless out there," said the boy, and was cuffed soundly on the ear.

"Only directionally, boy. If I had my way I'd be free to abandon the various and sundry pretentious laws that govern the Grand Line—like this young 'World Government'. They're going nowhere very fast—and believe me, I know what I'm talking about."  
"Alright," muttered the boy, feeling that he would never regain his composure on this ship, so there was no point in trying. "What's the Calm Belt, then?"

* * *

They had talked for many hours after that. The boy's head was still spinning as he slept, trying to absorb all of the fresh information.

He had expected the old man to rouse him early in the morning to perform some new chore, but when he returned to consciousness, he was alone on the deck of the ship, wrapped in the sail, the salt tang of the sea in his nostrils. The stench of dried vomit accompanied this comforting scent—not so pleasant.

The boy sat up, looking around warily in case of a sudden reprimand for sleeping in. Nothing.

The boy stood, stretched experimentally, and, for the first time, heard the muffled clanging. It seemed to be coming from below his feet. Seeing no reason not to, the boy took a step forward, towards the stairs leading onto the lower deck. At this point, the boat heaved suddenly on a swell of seawater and he toppled backward with an inelegant shout of surprise.

After several tries, he finally managed to keep his legs steady on the swaying deck. By that time, muttered swearwords accompanied the clanging. These seemed to be issuing from a trapdoor in the stained wooden deck. This hatch had been propped open, apparently to let out the sweltering heat issuing forth from the lower decks. The boy stared suspiciously into the hellish darkness for a moment, and then descended.

There was a forge on the ship. The boy stared at the setup, forgetting his usual icy poise for a moment in awe of the busy, sooty heat.

"Doesn't it make the ship heavier?" he asked, and through the hazy air, he saw the man turn to glare at him.

"I will thank you profoundly if you refrain from jabbering at me while I work," he snapped, and pulled something red-hot out of the coals with a pair of battered tongs. This object was the plunged without ado into a bucket of water. A great cloud of whistling steam issued from the bucket, obscuring the man.

"I wasn't jabbering." The boy looked around the room, eyes ranging over the various products of the man's trade, hung on walls and left to wait on tables. On the far wall, an array of gleaming steel lengths hung, flickering like flames made solid in the rippling light of the forge. If he looked long enough, the boy thought he could almost hear voices from them—small ones, like echoes, spoken heartbeats…

"Okay, kid, snap out of it! Grief, what's the—"

"Do you know how to use those?" He focused all of his intensity on the man, yellow eyes piercing in the gloom.

His reluctant savior did not seem at all bothered by this, but instead gave him an irked sideways glare. "No."

The boy scowled and backed towards the door, prepared to keep watch for however long it took an island to appear.

"Those," said the man, "are East Blue style swords. I favor West Blue myself. Did those hawk's eyes of yours miss the conspicuous scabbard on my belt?"

The boy's frown deepened at the _hawk's eyes_ comment, but he had a purpose now and he wasn't about to let this idiotic old man discourage him. "Teach me."

There was a slow pause, during which the fire crackled and the coals hissed as though in disapproval. The man slowly put down the shapeless chunk of iron and turned to face the defiant glare.

"Was that a command?"  
The sharp, arrogant part of his brain, which was still functioning from his years on his home island, said, _What can he possibly do if I say yes?_

He said, "Maybe." It was rather less impressive than he had hoped.

"And how do you intend to enforce that command?"

"By any means necessary." At this, even the old part of his mind noticed that this might not be the best reply, and he took an instinctive step backwards.

"Why?"

He stopped, stared into the grim, goateed face. "Why…what?"

A bony finger jabbed him in the chest. "_Why_ should I teach you swordplay? If that is, in fact, what you are _ordering_ me to teach."

The boy gaped for a moment, floundering for a reason. "I…I hear them. The swords," he blurted, and then thought to himself that this might actually make an impression…or cause the man to think he was utterly mad.

It did neither. The blacksmith snorted, clicking his tongue contemptuously as he surveyed the wiry, black-haired youth before him. "You think that's _special_? Let me tell you, annoying child: that particular quirk is not at all uncommon in lands that _are not your isolated, backwards little island_. I've met pirate's brats with better _haki_ than you, and they were better fighters, too. You may be a novelty where you came from, but you have been shoved into a whole new league, and you are _not_ at all peculiar here. So you might as well summon up some _better_ reason before I forcefully eject you from my property."

The boy stared. Words failed him—in fact, they ran away like little cowards, leaving his mind blank, empty, and vulnerable to the wroth of the mysterious swordsman.

…Which didn't come. He was watching. _Waiting_. The boy floundered for an explanation, and found a random, desperate one from the previous day.

"I want to be the best," he said, rather desperately. And waited for a second rebuttal.

This time, the old man met his expectations. "Ah. I see. And I should train you for precisely this single reason? This is still not adequate to require an _order_."

"Doesn't matter," said the boy, who felt he had nothing else to lose. "I will find a teacher one way or another, and I'll be the strongest if it kills me."

"You," said the man, "have no actual conviction."

"So teach it to me." The challenging tone was unintentional. It just came out that way. Oh well, thought the boy, at least he was going to die boldly. _What a stupid thing to think._

"My name," said the man, "is Jamba Curry. Just because I have gray hair does not mean that my muscles have deteriorated over my admittedly many years. Have fear for what comes after."

The boy stared for a moment, and then realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it, humiliation adding to the flush from the heat of the forge. "I don't have a name," he said.

"And you will not be given one until you've caught yourself a genuine victory," said Jamba Curry brusquely. "I shall call you Boy, because it is an accurate job description. Feel free to return to mending the sail, Boy."

Boy opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it again. He wouldn't argue until he could keep up with the old man. Master Jamba Curry… It sounded strange, so Boy decided to simply call him Curry.

* * *

Time was hard to keep track of on the sea. Boy finished with his first chore and was promptly put to another one. There were no official lessons, and even when Curry answered questions, Boy sometimes had difficulty deciphering the old man's oddly phrased replies. All in all, it wasn't what he had expected when Curry had agreed to his demand.

He slowly realized as the days passed just how stupid he had been to try to order the man around. They sometimes found an island with a port that would take Curry's business, and his new teacher was merciless in bargaining and as sharp as the blades hanging on the walls in his improbable little forge. And whenever he went onshore, he donned that wide-brimmed brown hat, tugging the fraying edge down as he stepped off of the deck.

Boy always set up the wares at the beginning of these "business days", and he always packed them away again at the end of them. It seemed to be his only purpose, as Curry didn't trust him with bartering.

One day, as Boy tossed bags of nails haphazardly into their box, the old man stated decidedly that he needed a cigarette.

Boy glared at him. The nails hadn't sold well that day, which had made it a long and boring one. _Swords_ fetched a lot of money every time, but Curry would only sell them on certain islands. As far as Boy could see, the only thing these "certain islands" had in common was a ludicrously high crime rate.

"In fact, I think it imperative that I acquire a cigarette," his teacher reiterated, and raised his eyebrows at Boy.

Boy was not amused. "I don't know where to find them here," he informed Curry coldly, and kicked the box of nails with one leather-clad foot—one of his less important job had been to make himself shoes. This had resulted in a pair of messily-crafted, moccasin-like…things. At least they stayed on his feet.

"That is not a significant piece of information," Curry replied gravely. "Somewhere on this forsaken chunk of earth, there is a shop that sells cigarettes, and you will find it."

"_Why_ do you need a cigarette?" snapped Boy. The throbbing in his toe from kicking solid oak was spreading through his foot, and it was definitely not improving his outlook on life.

"Because I intend to aim for the Grand Line in short order," said Curry in a bored tone of voice. "Therefore, I require nicotine to occupy my mind before it begins to stray towards the more sordid subject of near-certain death."

Boy went to find a shop selling cigarettes.

It took him most of the evening, and one of his clumsily-made shoes had begun to come apart at the seams. However, he was carrying a pack of cigarettes, and that was what counted.

Curry had settled into a rickety chair on the deck of the boat, a cup in one hand and a book in the other. He did not move as Boy strode on deck, trying to keep a stagger out of his step. Instead, he turned a page and said, thoughtfully, "Tell me, Boy, have you ever sullied a piece of literature with that peculiar brain of yours?"

"Cigarettes," said Boy sullenly, and tossed them at the man, aiming for the back of his head.

Curry caught the pack out of the air without looking and drew one out of the cheap cardboard package, examining it.

"Suitably foul, made of plants that certainly were not intended for this purpose, and preposterously cheap. Excellent. How did you acquire them?"

"I found a shop," said Boy, and tugged his torn shoe off, examining it sourly as he made his way towards his sleeping place on the upper deck.

"I gave you no money."

"I took five boxes of nails and broke something important and made of wood when the owner wasn't looking. It worked."

There was silence from Curry. It didn't matter what the old man thought, Boy grumbled mentally. He had his cigarettes.

Boy himself had a new blanket, which was actually another of his masterpieces of needlework. It was made from Curry's old clothes. Oddly enough, these were in plenty. Each and every one of the garments had smelled noxious before Boy had washed them in a tub of seawater. Now they were only semi-toxic in scent.

Boy hauled the blanket-like thing over himself, glaring at the inside of it as the night progressed outside of his smelly, dark little world.

After a while, he thought he heard Curry laughing.

Probably something in his book.

* * *

The next day, Curry began to teach him how to fight with a sword. The first lesson was a remarkably impromptu one, which consisted of Boy standing up, yawning, and suddenly finding himself in a situation that could become bloody very quickly. A prickly situation, someone with a very dry sense of humor might say.

"Should you ever find yourself in a prickly situation such as this curious predicament," said Curry, "you must be aware of the procedure in such things."

"Which _is_?" Boy growled, eyeing the saber blade angled at him.

"Don't let it happen," Curry stated, and attacked again.

"If it's escaped your notice, I don't have a sword!" Boy shouted, and stumbled clumsily to one side as the blade swished past his ear.

"Correct," said Curry jovially, and sheathed the sword. "Let us consume our morning meal. Break our fast, et cetera. We're almost out of Piiiiiiiiineapple, but the last port provided me with the eggs of the lesser Honku fish, which is rumored to produce the blandest taste in the world. Or, if you have the right genes, it could poison you. Let us eat. Your hand looks much better, by the way."

Boy decided not to ask what the chances were of having said genes. He was hungry, and there was no way he was going to let some poison finish him off this early. So he ate it. It was _the_ most flavorless food he had ever eaten.

The next morning, Boy narrowly avoided impalement through the throat when he rolled over under his covers. This time he was up a little faster, adrenaline and fury wiping all traces of sleep from his mind. "What do you think you're _doing_?"

"I believe I enlightened you as to this yesterday," said Curry, and sent a series of lightning-fast jabs at Boy's stomach. The blade pressed through his tattered shirt, digging past his ribs—Boy could feel it draw blood, and dodged away, automatically focusing icy resolve on Curry. It was instinctive now and generally caused the victim of said resolve to go weak-kneed and walk away very fast.

The sword flicked past Boy's face, grazing his cheekbone as his own killing intent was countered by Curry's own steely will.

"_Nice try_, Boy, but I _told _you already—out here, you mean nothing." Their eyes locked for a moment, but Boy found himself turning away almost immediately, his neck twisting without consent from his mind.

"Now, then," said the old man cheerfully, as though nothing had happened, "We shall have some more curious and possibly fatal food. Every day is an adventure."

As the days went on, Boy became more and more used to the attacks, which began to occur sporadically throughout the day as well. Sometimes Curry would suddenly try to slice him open in the middle of a business deal. This usually lost him the sale and caused them to be forcefully evicted from the island, but he didn't seem to care. Boy found this extremely vexing.

One day, he awoke five seconds before Curry's first stab came, and was up on his feet as three feet of lethal steel slammed into the deck where his head had been moments before. Boy rolled, crouched, and prepared to dodge again, but his teacher had already re-sheathed the weapon and was promenading towards the lower deck with his usual yell of some complicated version of "Let's have breakfast".

What an unusual man, thought Boy, and noticed with surprise that he felt inexplicably proud.

* * *

**It was a real relief to give them both names finally...I was getting _so tired _of not knowing what to call them. The phrasing was more than a little awkward in several places. Does "Jamba Curry" sound satisfactorily One Piece-ish? In any case, this story is constantly under construction, so any mistakes will be corrected shortly.**

**My pride is something I won't stake my life on, so I'm not expecting fabulous responses to this fic, but reviews are always welcome-they make my heart feel warm and fuzzy! grin**

**There will be other OP stories after this, but I'm going to make sure to pace myself with any chapterfics. **


	2. Part II: Lines

**Pulling Strings is still alive now as well...I just haven't started on the next chapter. But I will tomorrow! I just wanted to finished this first...**

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* * *

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**This story is a theory. I do not own One Piece, obviously-I mean, I'm not _near _awesome enough. Oda owns it. Therefore Oda also owns this story. Meaning, if he says, "This is what happened, not _that_," I delete it. Because Oda totally reads fanfiction.**

**...Yeah, right. I'd feel so sorry for him if he did. The sheer abundance of _crap _would probably have him putting OP on hiatus for weeks...**

**Anyway! Boy's story continues...**

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* * *

**Part II: Lines

_"The longest part of the journey is said to be the passing of the gate." -Marcus Terentius Varro (116 BC-27 BC)_

The last stop before the Grand Line was a seedy, disreputable town on a seedy, disreputable island. The island had no name. The town was known as Loguetown to some and numerous, rather more obscene names to many.

"We shall purchase a Log Pose here," announced Curry as they stepped onto the deceptively well-paved streets. "And cigarettes."

"'We?" Boy muttered, and was cuffed soundly over one ear.

"Yes," Curry replied serenely. "I shall accompany you in spirit. The rest of me will purchase generous amounts of alcohol and involve itself in some sort of twittering brawl, which you will locate and observe for the sake of education. _Grief_, Boy, stand up straight!"

Boy wandered morosely through the streets, bereft of his odd mentor and considering the sheer idiocy of the tasks the old man had sent him to fulfill. A Log Pose and cigarettes. Fantastic. And _how,_ exactly, was he was supposed to find these?

Well, he had found the cigarettes last time, but he didn't even have any nails with him this time, and he wasn't completely sure what a Log Pose looked like.

…In fact, he had no idea whatsoever what a Log Pose looked like.

_No time like the present to find out,_ said a voice in the back of his head, which bore a disturbing resembling to Curry's. Boy cursed under his breath and quickened his pace. Maybe the old man _was_ following him in spirit.

Two streets later, a pickpocket attempted to ply his trade (which was stupid, because Boy had not shown any signs of even being in the general vicinity of beri), and received a bony elbow in the stomach for his pains. Boy didn't like thieves, and since this one was almost as scrawny as he was, he wasted no time in disabling the man. The thief wasn't nearly as tough as Curry.

Around the next corner, confidence bolstering his remaining arrogance, Boy shouldered past a tawdrily-dressed boy, elbowing the other's arm as he passed.

The next thing he knew, the kid had spun him round by the sleeve and Boy was staring into a pair of wild, silvery eyes, pupils contracted with killing intent, and raw killing intent seared down his spine.

_"You lookin' for a fight, kid?"_

He couldn't answer, too preoccupied with summoning up the resolve to counter the pirate boy's will—no luck. The boy shoved him away, letting the intent fade, and strode down the street without a look back.

_I've met pirate's brats with better _haki_ than you…_ Well, there it was, then. Curry had been right. Boy really was nothing out here.

He resolved to change this.

But first, he would wander around Loguetown until he found a Log Pose and cigarettes. The latter was a much easier chore, as the town was bustling with business, and ninety percent of it centered on ways to poison oneself. Boy had stolen a small dagger from Curry's smithy-he would probably pay for it later with bruises. This he successfully bartered for a pack of cigarettes. Then, with this half of the mission accomplished, Boy turned his attention to the more difficult task of finding the Grand Line brand of compass.

As Boy left the store, his yellow eyes fell on a rangy kid, years younger than himself, turning onto the street. His cynical, streetwise expression and bizarre gray hair were so contrary to his age—nine or ten, at most—that Boy just stared at him for a moment. But he had the look of someone who had grown up in this town.

Perfect, then. Boy made his way through the bustling knots of people until he caught up with the other boy, and said, "Hey!"

He received a suspicious glare. "Don't got no money."

"I'm looking for a Log Pose."

"Don't got one o' those either."

"No, _brat_," said Boy, swiftly running out of patience, "where can I _find_ one?"

The kid cocked his head to one side, contemplative and crafty. "_You_ got money?"

"No," Boy replied. "There's not a beri on me. Now, where can I find a Log Pose?"

"Steal one from a pirate," said the kid, and scowled with hatred disproportionate to his age and size. "Do me a favor."

"Isn't there a store where—"

"Listen, Mister, you're nonna my business and no, there ain't. Go steal one. Gotta go find something out."

"Yeah? What?" Boy didn't like this kid much, but he was curious, and if it annoyed the stupid brat, so much the better.

"Whether it's true!" Gray-hair boy set off at a steady jog in the opposite direction.

Boy gave a snort of annoyance. "Whether _what's_ true?"

"Y'have to _ask, _idiot?" But the other vanished into the crowd. Boy glared after him for several seconds, never-to-be-used retorts piling up in his brain, and then turned on one heel and went to find a likely-looking pirate. He wondered vaguely whether the street kid would ever come to anything in this festering wound of a town. More than likely, he would end up dead in an alley somewhere.

Whatever.

The first two pirate crews Boy examined didn't even seem to be in possession of a normal compass, let alone one of the spherical devices that one of the friendlier shop owners had described. The third, however…

Boy didn't know where or how they'd gotten one, and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know. He just needed a way to get it from _them_.

None presented itself.

And so, lacking anything else to do, he followed the crew and observed them. He wondered vaguely whether the stolen dagger would have been any help as a weapon.

Probably not, he decided. Their brash attitudes and confidence made it clear that they weren't big-time pirates, but neither were they complete amateurs. More than enough to stop a child with a knife from stealing their Log Pose.

That last part was a little difficult to admit, even mentally, but Boy's time with Jamba Curry had taught him a little about that: if you can't change it, _let it go_ until you can.

But Boy had nothing else to do and so, with weary determination, he continued to tail the pirate crew through the streets of Loguetown. The sky darkened slowly with woolly gray clouds, reminiscent of the permanent cover over Boy's home island. He took a moment to glower up at them, his feet throbbing with relief at the brief rest.

_When I am the strongest in the world, _he thought belligerently, _I will only do things like this when I am bored. _

Then he kept walking, because there was really nothing else to do, and Curry would probably set out without him if he came back without a Log Pose. After a while, the pain in his feet turned to numbness, which spread inexorably up to his knees. They moved mechanically now, and if he didn't think about it, walking was almost easy; albeit sickeningly monotonous. Around him, the streets became less neat as they strayed away from the main roads-here there were no orderly white bricks or respectable shop fronts.

The situation took and eventful turn when Boy came around a corner to see at least five of the pirates peering over their shoulders in his direction. He halted where he stood, his heartbeat suddenly racing, and turned sharply to the left, moving as casually as possible for the sudden trembling in his joints.

_ Do _not _look behind you…_

Boy sank his teeth deliberately into his lower lip, trying to rein in his nerves. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the crowd moving around him, and wondered exactly how many thieves and cutthroats were mixed in with the businessmen.

Probably more than there had been earlier, Boy considered. Most vaguely respectable visitors to Loguetown would most likely be inside a relatively safer hotel by now. That taken into account, it was a safe guess that the people inhabiting the public areas were either drunks or criminals. Or both.

Boy took a deep breath, stepped into the gutter on the far side of the street—something began to leak into his shoes, and he tried not to think about it. Another deep breath, and he paused to listen hard for a moment for any sign that he was being followed. Nothing for a moment, save for the constant vulgar clamor. And then…

_"Hey! Watch it!"_

_ "Ya…shshh…where-e…goin'…?"_

_ "Pirate scum, mind your—agh!" _

"Just comin' through, mind yer fingers before I break 'em."

_Oh._ Boy swore under his breath—he knew the last voice. He had been trailing after its owner for an ungodly number of hours. It was the crew's captain. He broke out into a run, feeling suddenly coming back into his traitorous legs. His knees wobbled with every frantic step, but he was heading straight for another seething knot of people, and if he could just _duck under_ there, he might be able to—

"Gotcha!"

-throw them off. Boy suddenly found himself a great deal taller and in possession of rather less oxygen than he would have liked. There was a bony fist clenched around the back of his collar, and through blurred eyes, Boy could just make out his own crudely-shod feet dangling several feet above the grimy road. Then he looked up into narrow gray eyes, leering at him from above high, prominent cheekbones.

_"Hey, kid." _His head was ringing. The words were muffled, distant. _"What're y'after, eh?"_

"Hng," said Boy. Spots of black pulsed and faded in his limited range of vision, and his lungs were raw from lack of fresh air.

The pirate apparently realized his prey was in danger of dying before any questions could be answered. He dropped Boy, who inhaled desperately and very briefly before making sharp contact with the cobblestones. He let out a low, agonized hiss—_skinned hands, KNEES. My _knees_!_

"I said, _what are you after_?" He sounded more patient than demanding, but even Boy, with his lack of experience, knew this only meant more pain was coming. This was not some cramped little alley, and he was not up against five idiots this time.

"…Log Pose," he said shortly, not looking up. Instead, he inspected his raw hands. There were grains of sand and dirt in the broad, shallow scrapes, and his palms were beginning to sting. His impaled hand had healed remarkably well, but it had not quite scarred over yet, and there were now rips in the closing skin…

"Is that so, kid? Well, nothin' wrong with that. Just one more question, though."

_After which, no matter what I answer, you will attack me. _"Hm?"

"Was it _our_ Pose you was after?"

Boy paused, wondering with contemplative dread how long he could drag out the silence before one of two things happened. The first option was thus: he could eventually answer and then be beaten for the effort. The second option was equally appealing: he could simply wait until his antagonist grew bored and decided to cut out the middleman.

Neither was optimal.

The pirate's façade of patience seemed to be holding out for the moment. There was no sound from him, save for the occasional _tap-tap-tap _of his boot. The world-wide sign for "I'm waiting."

His crew, on the other hand, was not so willing to wait for some skinny brat to speak his piece. Boy could hear their belligerent mutters over the chatter of the streets, but didn't turn his attention to it. Instead, he stood up, his movements jerky as shocks of pain lanced down his legs.

His hands were burning now, but he contracted both into fists anyway. The sudden white-hot searing in his palms distracted him enough, and he stared up, up, up…glared straight into the pirate captain's dull gray eyes.

His antagonist glared back, unimpressed. "Well?"

"Doesn't matter," said Boy, and managed to tilt his jaw a little further up, eyeing the pirate with feigned arrogance. "Will you _please_ stop stalling?"

A disbelieving, sharp-toothed grin greeted his words. "Funny. Wanta try again? It was just a yes'r'no-answer question."

"Funny," said Boy, as dryly as he could for the terror mounting in his chest, "can't see what difference it makes. Please…enlighten me."

He had learned "enlighten" from Curry. The old man was a veritable dictionary, albeit one without definitions. And, granted, many of the words he used were of his own creation, but Boy's vocabulary had nevertheless expanded during his time around his teacher.

Whether his antagonist knew the word or not, Boy could not judge from his reaction, which was one of total indifference. "Listen up, kid. 'M not lookin' to give you trouble, just want t'know. So—"

At this point, Boy was seized by a sudden fit of madness. Something in his mind said, _I'll just get it over with, because I'm bored of his voice, _so he stumbled ungracefully forward and delivered a surprisingly vicious elbow to the man's stomach. After all, it had worked on that pickpocket, Boy thought deliriously.

The pirate stared down at him for a moment, uncomprehending. For that moment, a surge of confidence made Boy feel heady and powerful, and so, because it seemed as though it would be _funny_ in that transient second of boldness, he cocked one angular black eyebrow. _Come on. Bring it, you weakling._

A fist large enough to encircle his throat crashed into his face.

Boy was in the air for a split-second, black and white exploding in his eyes. Then his sight faded back and lights and colors were wheeling, streaming, sky and street alternating at a breakneck pace. The uneven paving of the street pounded against his back, his arms, his chest. When it finally ended, Boy was left with his face pressed to the cobbles, stunned and battered. His mouth seemed inexplicably numb, and there was blood seeping into it from somewhere. He sought vaguely for the damage, and was assailed a moment later by excruciating pain. He'd bitten his tongue.

"Smug _brat_," snarled the pirate's voice. Boy immediately turned his mind away from the coppery taste in his mouth, and managed to heave himself onto his back, peering up at his attacker's face. Not so patient now.

Boy suddenly found that he was very tired. He could feel the adrenaline, burning his veins, driving his heartbeat at a furious tempo, but his yellow eyes would not stay open. He let his fatigued muscles relax, accepting the inevitable arrival of more pain.

As he waited, Boy attempted to tally up the results of his hardships. The legs, of course—he wasn't going to think about those now. And, yes, his jaw felt as though it had been wrenched from his skull by that punch. It was probably going to leave a formidable bruise, Boy mused, and swallowed some blood.

…There was no more pain. Why was that?

He cracked open one eye, hoping to glean some information. The only knowledge he received for his efforts was that the pirate had apparently left. Oh, and that it was a perfect night for stargazing, which honestly did not interest him at the moment.

Boy gave a colossal heave and sat up, wincing as he pressed his hands to the street, eyeing his surroundings with suspicion.

There was a brawl going on.

Well, that explained more than it didn't. Boy wondered whether he could stand, and then immediately decided not to try. Firstly, he would probably collapse again. Secondly, the less conspicuous he was, the better. In a town like this, children would receive no mercy in a melee.

Instead, Boy did his best to crawl backwards in as subtle a manner as possible. When he deemed himself to be out of range of the rapidly spreading conflict, he sat back again and…watched. He heard several words that boys in his hometown would be beaten for saying, and others that their mothers had probably never heard. Quite apart from the interesting obscenities, the dialogue of the brawls' instigators was rather entertaining.

_"My ear! M'ear—you bloody—I'll have yer—"  
"—got a _bottle_, do y—"_

_ "AAaaaaAaaaahhhghhh—"_

_ "Scurvy, pox-ridden dog's bastard! Get back here!"_

_ "—hhhhAAAAaaaauuuughI'll KILL—"_

_ "My other ear!"_

"Perfidious wretchling!"

That voice, Boy reflected absentmindedly, sounded rather familiar.

Oh, wait…

Curry was definitely drunk. However, for some obscure reason, it appeared to heighten his intelligence to inhuman levels rather than lowering it. There was a bottle dangling from his left hand, and he held his drawn saber loosely in the other. He looked positively _wild_.

Boy, of course, had not been expecting his mentor to appear in such a place—although he did vaguely recall the old man's words upon their arrival in Loguetown; _"The rest of me will purchase generous amounts of alcohol and involve itself in some sort of twittering brawl, which you will locate and observe for the sake of education."_

What a coincidence. Boy, deciding that acquiring a Log Pose was now virtually impossible until further notice, sat back and observed for the sake of education. It was quite educational.

For instance, after several minutes of watching the proceeding mayhem, he began to realize that there were several different categories of drunk involved in the brawl. There was the Angry Drunk, who fought everyone and never gave an explanation for choosing his targets. Then, subtly different from the Angry Drunk and more dangerous, Boy found the Violent Drunk; he would choose one person at a time and do his very best to slaughter them. Thirdly, in rapidly decreasing numbers, was the Stupid Drunk—men whose response to alcohol was stagger and sputter and generally fail at anything and everything.

Curry, on the other hand, was apparently the one-of-a-kind Thinking Drunk. At times, he might appear as a Stupid Drunk, swaying and slurring, but always his apparently random stumbles somehow managed to carry him away from his opponents' blows. These _opponents_ seemed to consist of the entirety of the mob, as is the nature of such events. Curry, red-nosed and fiery-eyed with what might have been whiskey, spun among them like a one-man natural disaster. His saber flickered and jabbed in the minimal light from the bar's open doorway, and Boy allowed himself to marvel for a moment at the weird, brash elegance with which the old man handled his weapon. There were no wide swings, no bold movements. It was almost like a dance, Boy decided.

A weird, random, ridiculous dance. Boy resolved that his own style, when he became the best, would be much more graceful.

He had expected Curry to be the last one standing at the end of it, but his mentor apparently grew bored early and simply strolled out of it, occasionally ducking a fist or straightening his wide-brimmed hat. Behind him, the fray continued to scream and maul its way across the street.

"Well?"  
"_Well_ what?" asked Boy, and his jaw throbbed suddenly. He had forgotten his various accumulated aches in watching the brawl.

"Cigarettes. Log Pose. Have them."

"You can't just _order_ me to have something," Boy complained.

"That," said Curry loftily, "is beside the point." He took a demure sip from his half-empty bottle and swept the reddened edge of his sword along his coat, leaving a dark smear. "Cigarettes. Log Pose."

"The former, but not the latter," said Boy hoarsely, and dug in his pocket for the battered pack that he had acquired at the beginning of the day. His pants had only one pocket—also of his creation; a square of cloth stitched to the fabric over his outer thigh. Boy tossed the cigarettes haphazardly at Curry, knowing the old man would catch it no matter what.

"Good words," Curry remarked, snatching the little cardboard box out of the air. "What, precisely, prevented you from obtaining the requested item?"

"He punched me," Boy replied blankly.

"Let me repeat the previous inquiry."

"I had no way of getting that thing from them."

"Did you try asking?"  
Boy directed his very best _are-you-a-total-idiot _stare at Curry, but received in return an obviously better practiced look that said quite clearly, _no-but-you-are_.

"How would that have given me any advantage?"  
"The element of surprise," Curry replied briskly. "The concept you utilized earlier—elbowing him in the midriff—was an adequate one. _However_, such tactics have a much higher probability of actually _succeeding _if the intended target does not anticipate it."

Boy paused for a moment to translate this brief lecture, and then returned to glaring sullenly at Curry. "He _didn't _see it coming."

"No. However, would that odious individual have struck you had you attempted the endeavor before he ascertained that you were tripping over his heels?"

Boy paused again, wishing profoundly that Curry would not speak in such long sentences. Then, having deciphered the question, he considered it.

"…Maybe."

"How very decisive of you, Boy."

Boy shrugged. He didn't feel particularly talkative, and Curry certainly was—enough for both of them, in fact. Let the old man do the speaking.

"Unintelligent brat," commented Curry serenely, and swallowed a generous mouthful of his bottle's contents. "In any case, I have a paltry piece of information for you: the Log Pose that your selected victim carried was, in fact, counterfeit."  
"Don't know that one," said Boy bluntly. There was no point in having pride around Curry.

"_Fake_," Curry clarified jovially, and turned on his heel. "I shall now quest for one myself. Do not move from this location, Boy! I have intentions to return within an hour."

Boy rolled his eyes halfheartedly, though they twinged at the gesture, and lay back, doing his best to look dead. Dead kids weren't such a great stretch of imagination on the back streets of Loguetown. Anyone who wanted to go through his pocket for loose beri would be very disappointed, and Boy felt sure that he wouldn't be awakened by any amount of rummaging. If he hadn't had a definite plan for the future, death might have seemed an almost appealing option. He was very, _very _tired.

* * *

When Boy awoke once more, the air smelled of salt and the floor was swaying. This meant that he was on a boat. Whether it was Curry's vessel or not was not relevant, as there was likely no means of escape one way or the other. Therefore, with no further thoughts as to whether he had been kidnapped by pirates or not, Boy fell once again into a deep sleep.

Shortly afterwards—or so it seemed—he was roused rather more emphatically by sudden and very intense killing intent. He rolled sharply, folding his legs under him and springing to his feet as Curry pulled back from a stab that he had definitely aimed at Boy's head. The old man turned swiftly, flying forward with terrifying speed. The saber blade swept past Boy's nose and then a series of deft feints brought them both to the back of the boat. Here Boy, desperate and suddenly very keen on survival, ducked past a lunge and under Curry's guard, slamming his head into the old man's ribs.

Well…he would have, anyway, if Curry had still been there. Old people, Boy thought morosely, should not be able to move that fast. It wasn't fair.

He dropped to one knee, and then collapsed abruptly onto his side, letting out a slow, careful breath.

"Up! Up!"

Boy resisted the urge to whimper and curl into a ball. Instead, he muttered, "It _hurts_."

"And it will hurt _more _very shortly if you do not stand—_grief_, boy, UP!"

"Lessons" had never been quite this elongated before. Boy wondered for a moment whether this was the second stage, and shuddered at the thought. The action sent pain jolting down his entire body, but there was no time to consider this as Curry attacked once more.

Approximately six minutes later, Boy had accumulated several fresh injuries, most of which were bleeding profusely. Curry informed him brusquely that it was too late for breakfast, and Boy therefore must wait a number of hours for any edible item to come within ten feet of him. And so it came that Boy sat in the corner of the ship furthest away from the entrance to Curry's forge. He was _not _sulking. Certainly not.

Alright, then. Perhaps he was sulking. But not without reason, Boy told himself stubbornly. A deep graze on his forehead would not stop bleeding, and his left upper arm, which Curry had caught with an especially ferocious swipe, was staining his sleeve crimson. In addition, the previous night's hurts were returning one by one—worse, if anything, than they had been.

There was no way of telling time on Curry's little boat, save for the sun's position in the sky, and a rising mist was gradually obscuring even _that_. It engulfed the battered craft like a huge, opaque creature, and nothing, neither water nor sky nor ship, could be seen past its murky curtains. Boy stared into it, his resent gradually turning into a growing unease. Only the wind guided Curry's boat now, and there was no knowing where that fickle force would take it. Knowing Boy's luck, it would probably lead them straight into a rock.

But Boy knew nothing of steering a ship, and did not even consider the possibility of asking Curry. His teacher had been shut in the forge for the majority of the day, and one of the most important rules Boy had learned on the little unnamed boat was: _Do not disturb Curry when he is working. It is not wise._ So Boy sat back and resigned himself to certain death.

There was silence for a very long time after that, and during it Boy closed his eyes and thought profoundly about his life. He had not had a very awful one, all things considered. However, he would rather have liked to _do _something with it before dying out in the middle of nowhere.

Wait. Wait a moment. He _wasn't _going to die. Dying was not an option at this point. He needed to be the best first. The strongest.

The strongest _what_?

Swordsman, his brain replied with total certainty. Boy blinked, startled. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the strongest _swordsman_. He had just thought _best _and _strongest_ because he didn't want to be laughed at anymore. He hadn't really thought about a specific profession. Well, he _had _asked Curry to—and _yes_, he _had_ implied that he wanted to be the best swords—but that didn't necessarily _mean_… He hadn't been thinking at that point.

Boy halted his internal protest before it could go any further. Then he thought rationally about his situation. Then he decided that, rather than resigning himself to death, he would resign himself to one day being the world's best swordsman. It was a much more encouraging state of affairs.

And then he sensed something behind him.

It was not a person. It was something even a child would have felt. Boy, sitting with his back to the prow of the boat, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He opened his eyes, needing to know what it was, and then suddenly it _stormed_.

* * *

_ Many years later, when Strawhat Luffy's ship entered the belt of storms on its way to the Grand Line, the weight and sturdiness of his fine caravel ship Going Merry would prevent any chance of capsizing. Most pirate crews encounter the _real_ challenges upon entering the Grand Line. Most pirate ships are constructed to resist the wear and tear of weather._

_ Jamba Curry's little boat, interestingly enough, was not._

_

* * *

_Boy forced himself to his feet, his curses silenced by a massive thunderclap. Rain slapped down onto the deck in sheets, pounding unmercifully down on the boy's bony frame. Gripping the suddenly slick railing for support, Boy turned slowly, squinting frantically through water and shrieking wind into the distance. Where was it? There had been a _presence_—not something alive, he knew instinctively, but just something _huge_, like a wall…

_…Oh._

He had not noticed the Red Line because in the gray storm-light, it could have been the sky above the horizon. Then he became aware that something was subtly wrong, and suddenly his eyes adjusted to the sight.

It was _gigantic_. "Wall" was too tiny a term for the awesome, vast immensity of the Red Line. It baffled the brain that something so far away could be so enormous.

_"Impressive, isn't it?"_

It was Curry, looking significantly more cheerful than he had earlier that day. Boy turned to look at him, and then realized that it was pointless—Curry's face was a vague, flesh-colored blur through Boy's rain-soaked eyelashes. Boy nodded in reply, fearing to open his mouth lest it fill with seawater. But, as usual, questions had begun to saturate his brain, and even in the belly of the beast, he could not stop himself from voicing them.

_"What happened?"_ he shouted, and then wrapped both arms around the railing as the ship bucked violently on a wild swell of water.

_"This region is generally rather turbulent!"_ Curry replied happily, one hand pressing his hat to his head. Its formidable brim flapped wildly in the grip of the semi-hurricane, but the swordsman himself seemed to have the enviable ability to keep perfect balance on the pitching deck. Boy found that he felt more secure hugging the rail—he was not fond of the idea of falling overboard.

_"How long will it _last_?" _he screamed, deafened by the monstrous roar of the gale.

_"Oh, we ought to be quite secure in these miniature squalls for a number of kilometers! After that, the tempestuousness should increase momentarily before we access __Reverse__Mountain__!"_

_ "Did you just—"_

Without warning, seawater bounded over the side of the boat, and for a moment all Boy knew was that it was in his mouth and throat and lungs and eyes and ears and he _could. Not. Breathe_.

And then it was gone and he was gasping for breath, vomiting cold saltwater over the railing, eyes squeezed tight shut at the prospect of this hell for Curry-knew-how-long.

And it went _on_.

Boy didn't know how long they were in the core of that storm, nor did he have an inkling of when it became worse, as Curry had predicted. The only thing he knew was that, an eternity later, they emerged from the lightning and sleeting rain and snarling thunderclaps. There was mist again—a blank gray screen over his sore, blurry eyes—and then, slowly, sunshine. And the sensation of speed. There was some current, pulling at the boat, and they were moving faster and faster…

Boy fell into a stupor, fatigue weighing down his body. He was aware only of the boat's movement through his daze.

He was nearly half-asleep when his ears crackled with the sudden change of altitude.

The air was freezing cold at the peak of Reverse Mountain, the sky a perfect clear blue. Spray crested at the very top, frosting in midair. The sun was a fiery white in the sky, its heat making a sudden sharp contrast to the chill of their height.

The boat _leapt_…and landed, crashing roughly into the downward current, surging unstoppably into the Grand Line. Boy squinted through salt-crusted eyes, trying to snatch a memory from the chaotic whirling of his thoughts.

_The greatest seas of the world…only one man has ever conquered it…many have tried and failed…_

Boy stared ahead, a sense of excitement rising unbidden in his chest. He felt he should have been afraid, fearful of the Grand Line's vast, perilous seas. Instead, anticipation seized him, along with a curious impatience. _I want to fight—to improve _fast_. I'll beat whoever I have to…_

He must have said this aloud. Curry gave him a perfunctory fist to the ear, casting him an evil grin.

"I believe it to be a premature time for such braggish and uncalled-for assumptions!" The old man raised his voice over the rushing of the water, a wicked grin creasing the crow's-feet marks by his eyes. "We shall see, Boy, we shall see. Have fear for what comes after!"

And they plunged onto the Grand Line.

* * *

"Why was there a whale?" asked Boy. His eyes were screwed shut, but the burning of crystallized salt water was agonizingly persistent.

"I," said Curry frankly, "have not the most vague idea."

"Oh."

Boy was spread-eagled on the deck of the boat, face-up. Nearby, the trapdoor leading to Curry's hellish, clanging forge was open. When Boy's mentor chose to answer, the chaotic miasma of noise often muffled his voice, and the heat was tangible even from a foot away.

"Curry."

"What."

That was one of the more unusual facets of their conversations—a probably-teenage boy and a definitely-old man making periods do the work of question marks.

Except when there was clearly a question, of course. "How long should it take to reach the first island?"

"Once again, an answer eludes me," Curry replied. "Perhaps this is because I have not, in fact, been to _every_ procession of islands that reside on the Grand Line. The theory bandied confidently about by various geographers is that the isles begin as many, and then funnel neatly down to one. I would not know. When I last traversed these mildly psychotic waters, it took me approximately seven days to arrive at my first stop."

"Oh," said Boy unenthusiastically. Now that the excitement had dissipated, all he really wanted was some food and a long sleep. However, since neither seemed forthcoming, he had settled for attempting to sate his curiosity instead. "So. What was _that_ island like?"

"Hills bearing a disturbing resemblance to cacti and a small population totally comprised of bounty hunters."

"What is a 'cacti'?"

"It has the great fortune of being the _plural_ of the word 'cactus'. I assume that _you_ will eventually witnessing one such organism in existence. As it is, describing one for your entertainment holds no intrigue for me."

"Oh." Boy delved into he depths of his fatigued brain for another question, and hauled one of the rather less interesting ones into his conscious. "Does the World Government actually have control over the _whole_ world?"

Curry unleashed a stream of creative and complex profanities at his current project, and there was an erratic clatter of mad hammer strikes as he attempted to impose his will upon it by way of persistent bashing. Then there was a hissing keen as he quenched the length of presumably red-hot metal, and Curry's voice drifted up. "The _World Government_ is firmly affiliated with approximately one hundred and sixty-five nations around our world. Their existence has suckered itself onto this terrestrial ball for some eight hundred years."

Boy considered this. "…You called them _young_ earlier," he commented vaguely. "How old does that make _you_?"

"Over my numerous years, the actual number of those years has never concerned me overmuch," answered Curry tranquilly. He head appeared over the edge of the trapdoor, along with one blackened hand, which was holding a gleaming glass sphere. "Keep this." And he tossed it at Boy, without any apparent regard for where the boy was actually lying. Boy barely managed to catch it, and, after a moment of silence, during which he glared pointedly at his teacher, he turned his attention to the object.

It was a Log Pose.

"Keep the ship on course," said Curry, and disappeared again.

"I…I don't know how!" Boy stammered, scrambling over to the trapdoor and peering resentfully into the red-lit gloom.

_"Then I suggest that you _discover_ how with great alacrity," _Curry's voice replied. _"The Grand Line is not precisely famous for its forgiving nature. Inform me if a monstrous tempest appears."_

"I can't just work all this out on my own!" Boy shouted. There was no reply from the depths of Curry's underworld lair, only the brash ringing of resumed hammering.

The next few days were not pleasant ones. Boy finally received nourishment in the form of slightly raw seabird, smoked over Curry's forge, and bread that very nearly broke his teeth. Still, the bird didn't taste completely horrible, and at least the bread wasn't moldy. And Curry accepted questions about the various intricacies of navigations, so it wasn't so very bad.

But there were nights, when tiny Grand Line whirlpools kicked the boat in circles and freak rains of pumice left him with swollen bruises, that Boy honestly whished that he had never become involved with Jamba Curry and his mad, mysterious motivations for a journey on the Grand Line. However, on most nights he just wanted a sword of his own, because he could hear _things _in the water around the boat. On those nights, he would imagine huge, bulbous eyes and jagged teeth. But all that could be seen, when he dared to look, were huge fins carving dark whorls into the seawater. Yes, a sword would have been comforting.

Ten days after Curry and his reluctant protégée entered the Grand Line, Curry emerged once more from his workspace and lessons commenced again—sometimes _during_ the freak rains of pumice. Boy was now not especially fond of the _days_ either, but he took some pride in the fact that his stamina had improved since the start of their impromptu sparring sessions.

One day, twisting rather acrobatically away from the flare of dancing steel that was his teacher's saber, Boy noticed that Curry wasn't guarding himself very well. His movements were as neat and clean-cut as usual, but his left hand was held wide of his body and sword hand. Boy, mesmerized by this sudden revelation, barely avoided the blade as it grazed past his ear. And there, _right _there, was that opening. He lunged for it, head down, hands extended. He barely saw the old man's stance shift, but when Boy's fists collided with Curry's stomach, his teacher seemed barely fazed by the blow. He had adjusted his footing to a much sturdier bearing, almost as though he were bracing himself…almost as though he _knew…_

Boy straightened, glaring at Curry. "What was that about?"

"If you happen to be referring to the formation of clouds in the heavenly vault, such things are usually caused by a circuitous process known as—"

"_Why_," Boy ground out, "did you leave yourself open like that? You _knew _ I was—"

"Thank you for being specific!" said Curry cheerfully. "I will now impart to you knowledge of great significance. That aperture in my guard has existed ever since our lessons began. _I _have been waiting for _you_ to see it. Now we shall progress to the next juncture in your curriculum. After you stop our unfortunate boat from smashing messily into that reef and damaging the prospects of our later journey."

"Reef?" Boy wheeled around immediately, intending to haul the boat away from its apparent course towards danger. Instead, he stopped to stare _past_ the water swirling in knots over the reef and up, up, _up_ at the _island_.

"Wow," he said.

* * *

Red Stone Island was, according to Curry, a "Summer" Island. Boy's own home island had never really exhibited any signs of seasons, but he had experienced a few mildly hot days aboard Curry's boat.

Nothing could have prepared him for Red Stone Island. Boy felt as thought the sun's rays were physically battering him, like a piece of superheated iron under Curry's merciless hammer. And it wasn't just the sun, either—the crimson-orange sand shifting and squeaking under his vaguely shoe-like footwear exuded that burning heat as well. Boy slid and swayed over the unstable ground, trying not to be envious of Curry. The old man had the bizarre ability to maintain perfect footing, even on the fine red sand.

They were making their way towards the town. One of the island's many enormous red stones reared over the tiny establishment, shading almost the entirety of its spread of buildings. Those huge rocks were everywhere, their broad, sheer, scarlet faces visible even through the heat waves limning the horizon. Boy didn't like them at all. While it would be nice to be out of the sun for once, the frequency of the landmarks seemed distinctly weird to him.

But Curry wasn't bothered by them at all, so Boy said nothing and slogged his way through the sand and the heat towards the town.

* * *

_ Many years later, the __kingdom__ of __Alabasta__ on __Sandy __Island__ would suffer a severe drought for reasons known only to certain people. Many people would die of thirst, and others of hunger._

_Red__Stone__Island__ was in a constant state of drought. In view of this, the citizens had dismissed water as a useless commodity and instead turned to the rather more accessible resource of beer.

* * *

_

It was a small town, and it was full of drunk people. Boy drew surreptitiously closer to Curry's back as they made their way down red-dust streets, staring with guarded interest at the busy, cheerful inhabitants of the village. They were not, he decided, to be labeled as any of the conventional types of drunk that he had seen in Loguetown. Instead, Boy decided that most of the people passing him belonged to the genre _Happy Drunk_. Others might be referred to as the exceptionally unusual Ordinary Drunk, which showed no signs of drunkenness whatsoever. Perhaps they were immune by now.

A few random corners later, Curry said, _"Aha!" _in a satisfied tone that suggested danger to come. Boy sidestepped past his teacher, surveying the street that they had entered with suspicion. However, Curry's intent became clear very shortly as the old man strode directly towards a bar.

He did not motion for Boy to follow, nor did he tell his student to stay behind. And because Boy wasn't fond of the idea of being left alone on the street with a lot of drunk people, he ran after Curry without hesitation.

It was no cooler inside the bar, which was most probably why the building's every occupant held a mug of beer. Even the barkeeper.

Paying no mind to this or even to the mysterious cheers that greeted his appearance, Curry walked purposefully up to the counter and, after a moment of rummaging in one pocket, let a handful of beri jangle onto the wood.

Obviously, there was no need to say what you were ordering here. The man behind the bar grinned, said something indecipherable in a very loud voice, and clapped Curry heartily on the shoulder before turning to fill…_two_ mugs?

"Curry."

"Boy."

"Eh…both of those are for you, right?"

"Attempt to come across as decisive when you unfetter that wayward jaw of yours. And no, they are not. _This_," said Curry magnanimously, proffering the second mug, "is for _you_. I suggest that you drink it, or your mortal flame shall be extinguished shortly."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Boy asked, scowling darkly at the stained, sloshing container.

"On this island, if I am to understand correctly, beer is a substitute for water. You shall not receive water, but ask and ye _shall_ receive alcohol. Drink it! Consume it! You must survive and, as you say, 'become the best'!"

There seemed to be no alternative. Boy took the mug and took a ginger sip of its contents. They stayed in his mouth for a full three seconds before he finally gave up on trying to swallow and gagged them onto the red-dusted floor. This prompted amiable laughter from the surrounding customers, and someone shouted something about _buying a full round if the boyo managed down a totaller upsy_.

Boy had no idea what this meant, but Curry's eyebrows were raised and he had extended one hand in the direction of the tankard, flexing his fingers in a gesture that clearly read, _go on_.

And it was thus that Boy learned to drink alcohol, but not necessarily to like it.

"So," said Curry later, "how, accurately, do you intend to go about _becoming_ the best swordsman in the world?"

After Boy had downed three mugs of beer, the last one without even choking, he had been declared a sensation. Not only had two more rounds been bought, but someone had also paid for room and board in a fit of generosity.

"I never said swordsman," Boy mumbled. He still felt queasy, and it was all he could do to talk straight.

"It was implied," said Curry dismissively. "But there _is _no established 'best swordsman in the world' at the moment, so who are you expecting to defeat in order to attain that status?"

Boy paused, trying to order the words properly in the fuzzy clutter of his brain. "I…ish…" he swore, and Curry's fist collided with his skull. Head throbbing, Boy tried once more to concentrate. "I…I figure…I _shink_. Think. Think if I beat everybonny who _say_ they're the bed. Best…"

Curry nodded approvingly. Apparently he had been able to make sense of Boy's vague mutters. "An excellent premise to begin with. However, consider this: the _genuine_ paramount of skill with a blade may not have any concern as to that very fact."

Boy frowned, trying to translate this suggestion into simpler language. "…Wha? I mean, are _you_?—" He hiccupped, glaring at the ceiling through the hot darkness.

Curry laughed, an unusual noise from him. It crackled out of the old man's throat like the hissing of coals in his forge, and it made Boy's head hurt. "I, the greatest swordsman? That is most humorous!"

"'Esh," Boy growled, pulling his pillow over his head. "Funny."

Curry continued to laugh for several minutes after Boy stopped talking, but the pillow's weight became stifling well before the chuckles subsided. Boy tried to ignore it, but his throbbing head wouldn't let him. Eventually, there was silence, during which the aching began to fade and Boy started to think he would have a chance of sleeping.

But Curry, of course, couldn't resist one last comment.

"Incidentally, Boy, the effects of ingesting such a substance are generally exponentially worse in the morning. It is commonly referred to as a 'hangover'. I suggest that you be afraid."

Stupid old man.

* * *

**This was an enjoyable chapter to write, and I suspect that the following parts should be fun as well-making up islands for One Piece fanfiction is a guilty pleasure. As is thinking of Devil Fruits. Speaking of which, someone with Fruit powers should turn up at some point...**

**Um. Just musing. Now, review replies! **

**NopeJustMe: Thank you very much! I don't know when he's going to become the best, but I'm pretty sure it's going to go well past that-perhaps up until his first fight with Zoro? I don't want to go into future events with OP-Oda will get around to those in time. **

**roo17: Thank you! And here it is...**

**silverlodi: I agree (that is to say, I agree that there aren't very many Mihawk fics). There should be more. Thanks muchly and I intend to!**

**the animaniac dude: Intriguing is good. Indeed, Jamba Curry's dialogue is incredibly fun to write.**

**SoaringFyreBird: Epic is also good-glad you approve. **

**Senko-Chan: inorite? *grin* Thanks, I hope to.**

**gagboy: How very encouraging of you.**

**Best wishes as well to everyone who has this on alert! If you feel like reviewing at any point, please do so, as they make me feel warm and fuzzy.**


	3. Part III: Ordeal

**Pulling Strings is FINISHED! H'zah!**

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* * *

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**This story is a suggestion. It is not a statement, nor even how I firmly believe Dracule Mihawk's life went. I am not asking you to believe that this is the truth of canon. I just hope that you enjoy it.**

**The story goes on... Boy's stint on Red Rock Island continues, and he gets in his first real fight. I didn't have the time to go over the last half of the chapter, so forgive me for any mistakes and I will take care of them shortly. Now, get thee hence and read!**

* * *

Part III: Ordeal

_"The enemy came. He was beaten. I am tired. Goodnight."_ --Vicomte Turenne, _Message sent after the battle of Dunen, 658_

Boy was awakened by an obscenely loud and cheerful voice, which said something that he did not understand. It just made his head throb. Boy was not at his most articulate in the morning at the best of times, and the alcoholic buzz that had filled his head last night had dissipated into an all-around achy oversensitivity. He groaned and covered his head with his pillow. It was immediately jerked away with great force, and Boy's muddled brain translated its first words of the day.

_"Ascend and be refulgent, Boy! Perambulate!"_

"Aaaoooww," said Boy, his mouth thick and sour. Currently, his eyes were tightly closed against the horrendously bright light, but he would not have put it past Curry to pry his eyelids apart. With this gruesome fate in mind, Boy opened his eyes a crack, blinking slowly as he tried valiantly to focus on his surroundings.

Curry was standing over him. It had to be Curry, because no one else Boy had seen in his short life had worn a hat that wide. One mystery down. His head pounded with the effort of thinking.

"Whuh. What time'sit?"

Curry clapped his hands with what appeared to be genuine appreciation. "He _speaks_. It is, by the admirable reckoning of this distinctly sanguine land, and I dare to quote: _'a little of the way past the bit where the shadow of the rock covers the butcher's house—or is it the baker's?'_. Delightful."

Boy stared up with numb, resentful suspicion. There was a period of silence as he attempted to compose a sentence in the depths of his abused brain. "…You still drunk?"  
Curry's smile, if anything, became wider. "Indeed! How very accurate of you!"

"Oh," said Boy. "Knew it. Your nose's red."

Curry cuffed him amiably over the ear. "If you are not on your undernourished feet within half a minute, I shall do my very best to perforate you. In addition, since you presumably are totally clueless as to how long half a minute might span, I propose that you arise with all haste. The Log Pose has _not_ made itself agreeable with our current magnetic environs, and so we shall spend this spectacular day discovering the cultural heritage of this land. Swiftly, Boy!"

Then he left, slamming the door behind him. Boy decided, glaring as vehemently as he could after his teacher, that he already knew everything there was to know about the cultural heritage of Red Rock Island, and it could be summed up in one word.

---

"Beer!"

Curry took a long drink of the aforementioned liquid, and proffered the flask to Boy, who stared at it until it was removed.

"Gratify your own desires, then," Curry commented, unfazed. "Now, then, I shall enlighten you as to my knowledge of this curious land! Insofar as I comprehend its inhabitants' mode of speech, its history is thus…"

Red Rock Island, according to Curry, was actually a chunk of the Red Line that had been somehow dislodged and _blown_ several miles into the Grand Line.

Boy expressed serious skepticism at this—or at least tried. Last night's beer had distributed lack of coordination generously throughout his muscles, and even his tongue seemed clumsy under its effects. "I know the shtorms—old man, I _hate_ you—_storms_ are strong out here, but—"

"Did I specifically utter the word 'storm'?" His teacher drew again at flagon, sighing contentedly after several hearty swallows. "False! I did not!"

"Okay, then," Boy muttered venomously. "What's the deal, then?"  
"The _'deal'_, as you so loquaciously phrase it, is that two renowned giants battled atop that Line, and this chunk of lovely reddish stone was _violently_ detached from it, after which it mysteriously acquired the magnetic pull of a Grand Line island, and eventually came to support life."

"Oh," said Boy. He wondered whether throwing up was out of the question in present company. Probably not—his teacher only objected to such things if they took place on his boat.

Boy threw up. Curry laughed at him in his head-splitting way and then, suddenly solemn, hauled Boy once more to his feet and shunted him forward. They continued down the street in this way: the old man would lecture, at a measured pace, over the various facets of Red Rock island; the pale teenager would vomit, at which point his caretaker would wait patiently for him to finish. Then the old man would pull his charge to his feet and the cycle would repeat. This went on until they had come full circle around the town and had arrived at the inn where they had begun.

By this time, Boy had become hugely weary of Curry's speeches, and he staggered gratefully into the building. Once again, there was hardly a difference in temperature, but at least he was now _inside_. He felt a vague horror as Curry followed him through the door. However, his teacher showed no signs of foisting alcohol on him, and Boy let himself relax somewhat. He even--after a moment's careful consideration—hoisted himself up onto one of the bar stools. The place was as packed it had been the previous night, even in the early morning, but there were three left free.

Then Boy noticed that _one_ of the remaining empty stools was to his left, free for anyone to sit. But even as Boy considered the rectification of this dire error, Curry had already descended onto the rickety construction with an audacious sweep of his long, battered brown coat. How he could stand to wear it in this heat Boy would never know.

"I refuse to drink more beer," the boy muttered, pleased by the coherency returning to his voice.

"I was not intending to have you do so," Curry informed him. This received a wholehearted (and, in Boy's opinion, unwarranted) laugh from the onlookers.

He waited for the chuckles to die down, and glanced at the faded, crinkled menu above the bar. _Beer: --*- beri_, read the first option. Boy stared at it for a moment, as though, by some feat of cognition, he could somehow decipher the spots of ink where someone had once printed a price.

…No luck.

He moved on to the next food offered by the menu. _Beer: 4*-- beri._

Boy let his eyes fall idly past the selections _Beer, Beer, Beer, _and _Beer_, until he came to _Billy._ Once again, his gaze remained here for several seconds, until he decided that it was probably best not to know or ask. It was, in all probability, some variation on _Beer_.

"Curry," he said, attempting to withdraw any traces of desperation from his voice, "is there _anywhere_ on this island where I could find some water?"

"Affirmative," Curry replied gravely.

Boy blinked. "What?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said—"

"Certainly there is _water_, Boy." Curry enunciated each syllable with weary condescension.

"Alright, then. Where."

The old man spread his arms expansively. "Why, the entirety of this island is girt by it!"

Boy very nearly succumbed to the urge to punch his teacher at that moment. However, he refrained from doing so because that would mean punching _Jamba Curry_. This was a very bad idea for two definite reasons. Firstly, Curry would almost certainly avoid the blow somehow, and, more importantly, the old man's ship was Boy's means of transportation. He had no desire whatsoever to remain on Red Rock Island.

"That," said Boy very calmly, "is sea water."

"Aha," Curry replied, a wry tone creeping into his voice. "I would not have guessed."

"I cannot drink it."

"Falsities."

"Very well, then. It would cause me to go mad," Boy elaborated, trying not to grind his teeth.

Curry gave his mug a pointed look.

"Moreso than beer," Boy amended, scowling. The haze of hangover had vanished, and he was now beginning to notice the extremely uncomfortable manner in which his shirt was stuck to his back. If Boy had known any place that was better than this island, he would have wished to be there. As it was, his only options were: his "home" (out of the question), Loguetown (_no_), and the Red Line.

Not promising.

Curry was speaking again. Apparently, the topic of conversation had grown too long whiling for his alcohol-heightened intelligence.

"I have also inquired after the length of time in which our Log Pose is due to…'reset', as one might put it."

"And?" Boy asked absentmindedly. He was watching Curry's hat, and it seemed to him that it was not quite extravagant enough for the old man's overconfident personality. It needed a feather, he decided, a red one.

Curry's fist collided with his ear once more, which probably meant the old man had answered his question. Curry considered his own words to be of serious import, and was never pleased when they were ignored.

"Guh," said Boy, scowling at his teacher.

"You _asked_, therefore you are obligated to _attend_. Our navigational instrument shall be prepared for the continuation of our journey by the dawn tomorrow. Are you comprehensive?"

"You—" Curry raised one warning hand. Boy stopped, glaring. "_Yes_. I _comprehend_. And I was about to ask you whether you've noticed that you've started using longer words since I first met you."

"Ah," said Curry, in a maddening tone of voice that said, _Yes, I know everything._ "You see, traveling by one's self, companionless, on relatively bewildering seas can cause one's vocabulary to diminish somewhat. In addition, I have been considerably more drunk during our remarkable journey than I was when you had the fortune of encountering me."

"Oh," said Boy unenthusiastically. "That explains it, then. What about the Log Pose, then?"

"It is due to fix itself upon the next island in good time—to be precise, tomorrow morning." Curry gave Boy a satisfied grin, and downed another gulp of beer with reckless abandon.

Boy groaned, and raised one hand to catch the bartender's attention. This failed, as the man was currently enjoying his own mug of alcohol. Boy was eventually forced to resort to waving his arms over his head, and he glared at the man as he ambled over to where Curry and his student sat.

Boy's expression went either unnoticed or uncared for. The barkeeper gave him a somewhat drowsy smile and said, "So, kiddy, whatcha want? Beer? Beer? Or—"

"Beer," said Boy, layering his voice with as much resignation as he could muster (which was, incidentally, quite a lot).

The guy behind the bar raised his eyebrows in a way which might have been described as supercilious, had he not been far too inebriated to qualify for such a Curry-like word. "A-_haah_. Going all poshy on us, boyo? Well, that was a starlin' upsy last night, so you…" He produced a sloshing tankard of ambery liquid, apparently from nowhere, and thumped it down on the wood in front of Boy's nose, effectively jolting most of its contents out of their container.

Boy glared at it, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the mug before him. Then, with the grim resolve of a dying man, he gripped it firmly with both hands and sat back, tilting the tankard and letting the beer flood his mouth. He nearly threw up then, but there was no way he was going to vomit again in front of Curry. It was humiliating. Therefore, he dragged steadily at the vulgar drink, until finally, with a last violent gulp, only the dregs were left.

There was beer dripping from his chin. Boy brought up a fold of his shirt to swab the stuff away, gingerly returned the mug to its place on the bar with the other.

When Curry remembered to make Boy wash his only shirt, Boy generally subjected his own shirt to an intense and rather brutal scrubbing in the seawater over the side of the boat. It smelled strongly of salt. Boy inhaled fervently through his nose, preferring the cloth's tangy scent to the odor of the liquid he had just consumed.

"For the sake of grief, Boy, do not humiliate me as your mentor by sniffing _any_ of your garments in public," murmured Curry, and snapped his fingers audaciously for another beer. Only Curry, Boy thought grumpily, could have done such a thing and gotten results.

"How many cups have you _had_?" he asked his teacher, eyes flicking to his own empty mug.

"Oh, many thousands, I am sure," said Curry, his expression one of great content.

Boy blinked.

Then, understanding, he scowled. "I am truly getting tired of that. Alright, _fine_. _How many cups of beer have you drunk during the span of yesterday and up to this point?_"

This last question was spoken in a highly affected voice. Boy was just learning the finer points of speech, having had a severe lack of formal education on his home island, but sarcasm had always been a large part of his repertoire.

Unfortunately, Curry seemed totally unfazed by his tone. "Oh, I am earnestly completely blank in that area," he replied serenely, giving Boy a distinctly patronizing look. "Although I believe I might, with a second's time, tally up your _own_ count on the fingers of one hand."

"No," said Boy, made petulant by spite, "it was _six_."  
"Indeed not. I would wager massive amounts of currency that you drank…five."

Boy found that he did not have the energy to argue, and instead glared morosely at the menu above the bar. _Beer, beer, and more beer._

Boy paused for a moment, eyes unfocused. _Beer, beer, and more beer. _He allowed himself a small, surprised smile. That was _funny_.

"Beer," he said, raising one eyebrow at Curry, "beer. And…_more_ beer."

The bartender cheered, and, on principle, so did the rest of the building's occupants. Curry just stared at Boy for a moment, totally deadpan, and then stood up, his coat flourishing for a moment as he did so. Then the corner of his mouth twitched wryly.

"I have acquired an errand to accomplish. Pray, do not restrain your boundless wit on my account." Then he strode out of the door, into the blinding light.

The heat, thought Boy, wasn't so bad now. And he could feel more funny things jostling for attention in the back of his brain.

"Beer!" he shouted, and everyone cheered again.

---

Boy awoke.

The bar was illuminated by a soft, ambient orange glow. _Sunset_, said Boy's hazy thoughts, and he tried to push himself out of his current slumped position. No such luck. He couldn't find his…nose. Feet. _Arms_.

"Ngh," said Boy, disgruntled by this disobedience from his body. His face, he discovered, was firmly glued to the countertop by an unpleasant combination of saliva and beer. And his head was starting to hurt again. Boy decided, still searching for the right muscles to move his hands, that he would sooner drink seawater than beer from this point on.

_Aha! _Victory. Boy raised both sluggish arms to the bar, placing his elbows on the semi-flat surface, and shoved himself forcefully away from the counter.

Perhaps a little too forcefully for his currently blunted reflexes to handle… Boy rocked back on his seat, tawny eyes widening for a moment of realization, and then the world twisted around him, as it seemed to have been doing more and more frequently since he'd met Curry. Then he was on his back, staring ruefully up at the ceiling, the air knocked from his lungs like beer from a shaken mug.

The imagery of this metaphor coincided almost perfectly with a sudden wave of nausea, and the universe succeeded once again in its efforts to make Boy throw up. Then, rolling away from the spreading puddle of bile and who-knew-what else, he adjusted his position into a spread-eagled sprawl, sweat beading on his nose as a fresh headache patiently built its way up to a skull-shattering throb.

"Ow," Boy groaned, and closed his eyes.

Eventually, the cheerful babble of drunken voices around him began to fade as people left, perhaps so that they could get a good night's sleep after two days' hard drinking. No one seemed even slightly concerned with avoiding Boy's prone form. He lay by the base of his stool, unmoving even when a heel landed on his fingers. He had greater discomforts to deal with.

---

Boy woke up again. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he wished it would happen again. His stomach churned. His eyes stung. His head felt as though Curry was forging something inside it.

Everything was so quiet…the bar must have emptied at some point. Boy pressed both hands to his temples and opened his eyes.

At first, his surroundings didn't make sense to him. The ceiling seemed much lower, and the air was thicker. And the floor was…softer…

Oh.

Curry had obviously decided to show a little compassion for once. Either that, or the barkeeper had complained, and the old man had dragged Boy upstairs out of deference.

The latter was probably more likely, Boy decided. Then, because Curry's snoring had not proved helpful to his state the previous night, he moved to place his pillow over his head…and stopped as he heard a sound from the hallway outside, magnified to harshness by his aching head. The doorway was nothing more than a frame, allowing a little air to circulate around the upper rooms, and from past the frame, Boy could hear light, cautious footsteps.

His eyes slid slowly open.

_Wait. Wait. Just wait until you know for certain…_

His head pounded. The footsteps turned, entered the room. It wasn't Curry—Boy could tell. The old man walked as though he owned the world, light but loud, unconcerned. The soft, padding gait of whoever was approaching Boy's bed right now sounded like someone who didn't want to be heard.

Boy forced his muscles to remain relaxed, made his breathing steady, even though his heart was juddering in his chest. He closed his eyes and waited.

_Closer. Much closer now. I can hear movement. I can hear breath. Right…_THERE!

A knife—good craftsmanship—a flash in the dim moonlight—Boy rolled with a yell, dropping off of his bed with a twist intended to let him land on his hands and knees.

He had no such luck. Uncoordinated, drunken hands slipped as they shot out to buffer the fall, and Boy's right shoulder smacked into the wooden floor. He yelped, instinctively gripping the joint with his left hand, and rolled again, breathing hard, eyes wide in the darkness as he sought desperately for his attacker—_there_.

He had been right. The man standing on the other side of the low, rickety bed was definitely not Jamba Curry. Boy knew this primarily because the man was not wearing Curry's long brown coat, which Boy had never seen his teacher without. And then, as the mysterious assailant stepped forward and the light pooled on his face, Boy saw that he was at least a few decades younger than Curry…but twice as vicious in appearance.

Boy swallowed hard, backing away slowly as the man adjusted his grip on the knife, grinning casually as though this were a simply a friendly visit. Then he walked forward. Slowly.

"_Curry?_"Boy swore mentally, eyes fixed on the advancing man. He hadn't meant for it to come out high-pitched like that…

Behind him, there was a muffled grunt. Curry said, "Salubrious," and then snored loudly.

_That bastard geezer! _Furious and terrified, Boy bent his knees as he continued to shuffle backwards, weighing the chances of his escape if he tried to bolt past the man for the door. Then he looked into the invader's eyes and all thought of evasion failed.

This man was here to kill him.

_"CURRY!"_ Boy's voice cracked again—he didn't care. But once again, there was no response, and the executioner grinned. Boy's back prickled with sweat, panic making his breath scrape in his throat.

Then the man spoke for the first time. He had a light, pleasant voice—not the deep, menacing growl Boy would have expected had he been concerned with anything but his survival.

"Don't try it. You know the rest of these people are too drunk to help you out. As for the old man… Well, you'd best give it up. Know why…uh…" He paused, frowning vaguely at Boy, his eyes still those of a cold killer, his feet still carrying him closer. "What's your name?"

"Boy," Boy croaked, and gulped again as the man before him smiled, tapping his chin with the knife.

"Ooh?_ Someone's_ got an imagination, _shyeheh_!"

Boy paused for a moment, trying to discern whether the odd noise tacked on the end of the comment was a laugh or a cough. Behind him, Curry muttered several lengthy words and rolled over. Something, apparently dislodged by this motion, clattered onto the floor a few feet away from Boy's feet. It sounded…metallic.

The knife was an inch from his throat. Boy stumbled backwards immediately with a sharp intake of breath, almost losing his balance. His heels knocked against something cold and hard, and he had no chance to turn around, but he had a very shrewd idea of what it was…

"Now, then, my name's 'Huntsman' Kuya. Pleased to meet you, Boy. And as I was saying, there's no point in asking the old man for help." He was within arm's reach of Boy, but his knife pointed towards the ceiling now, swaying in one relaxed hand.

Boy finally let the abject terror roiling inside him show on his face. It couldn't be a dignified expression, he thought, and let his knees go weak, dropping limply to the floor as Kuya padded delicately forward. "And…why's that?"

The assassin grinned sociably. "'Cuz he's the one paying me for this job, Boy."

The shock was like a lightning bolt, but Boy had no time to sit on the floor and ask, _"Why?"_ until he died at the hands of this maniac. He could save it for later.

The question.

Not the dying.

Kuya was fond of big movements, putting on a show. He pulled his arm back to stab, and Boy's hand, which had been slowly closing around the object behind him ever since he had let himself fall, tugged Curry's saber out of its sheath. The long, curved blade whipped through the air in a wild swing, hissing a fraction of an inch away from Kuya's stomach as he arched backwards, tilting away from the steel edge.

The two stared at each other for a moment, the hawk-eyed boy and the killer, wary in the darkness.

And then Kuya smiled again, and Boy's newfound confidence began to drain. He tightened his one-handed grip on the fencing sword, glaring as fiercely as he could at his enemy.

The assassin began, "Well, that was—"

"Sloppy," said a muffled voice behind Boy, who was so astonished that he actually turned his back on Kuya for a moment to gape. Curry was still reclined on his bed, the covers neatly made under him, his broad-brimmed hat tipped down over his face to hide one eye. The other gleamed in the darkness like a tiger's.

"_Boy!"_

And he whirled back just in time to see Kuya's knife rushing at his face. Boy ducked, raising the sword above his head in a clumsy attempt to block.

"Sloppy," said Curry behind him. "I utilize this particular word because you have neglected to maintain a compactness of motion—do you realize this, Boy?"

Boy circled steadily around his foe, making sure to keep the saber aimed directly at Kuya as he moved. Without turning to look at his teacher, he growled, "No, I do _not_. Did you order him to kill me?"

"In all possibility," said Curry dismissively, as though this fact were nothing important. "Now, I approve somewhat of your current modus operandi. However, your stance leaves a great deal to desire—"

"Old man, would you _shut up_?" Kuya said. Boy could see a faint scowl on his face in the darkness.

"Allow me to consider your request… Ah. Negative. My deepest apologies. Boy, stand correctly!"

Boy, hating the idea of following his teacher's (_previous _teacher's, he told himself) orders, but seeing no reason why he should not follow them, adjusted his footing to a firmer position. He became gradually aware, as he waited for the attack, that his headache—forgotten in a surge of adrenaline and fear—was beginning to return. _Hangover. _If he survived this, if he somehow escaped death, Boy was _never_ drinking _any_ alcohol _ever _again.

Kuya was moving. Boy readied himself, heartbeat leaping once more, but the young man only stowed the knife away in a sheath at his hip and instead reached over his shoulder, eyes still focused on Boy with an alarming intensity. There was a faint, almost musical hissing as Kuya withdrew his hand, now gripping a handle, followed by a crossbar, and then a formidable length of metal. A straight, double-edge sword, at least six inches longer than the sword in Boy's now shaking hand. He tightened his grip

"Alright," the man murmured, leveling the sword before him. "Perhaps you should have come at me before I replaced the little dagger, hm?" His face split into a jubilant grin. "_Sheheheheheh!"_

And he attacked.

Fear coursed down Boy's spine—Kuya was _fast_. The pirate captain in Loguetown had been nothing in comparison to this. And _this_ time, there were cutting edges involved… Kuya swung--

Boy did his best to parry—

pain seared in his shoulder as the blade bit into the skin—

a glancing blow—

but there was blood—

hot down his arm--

"Remember your swashing blow!" called Curry from his place on the bed. "Keep your center of weight lower, Boy!"

"Whose side are you _on_?" Kuya snarled, and Boy attempted a lunge, but the saber was swatted aside with a casual power that sent shudders up Boy's arm.

"Flexibility, Boy—is that not imperative?"

Curry's sword was heavier than it had ever looked in the old man's hand, and with every breath the fresh blood sent to Boy's head made the world spin. He raised the blade again, bracing for Kuya's next assault.

And it came. It was clear within the first few seconds of the attack that the Huntsman was only playing. Curry commented as Boy received one superficial wound after another that Kuya's style was "Slow, but passably graceful and quite solid." The killer was not amused.

The mock-battle went on. Outside, Red Rock Island was gray in pre-dawn light.

"Are you…going…to kill me…soon?" Boy managed during one of the pauses in the fight. He was bleeding what felt like a hundred places. It was becoming hard to tell now.

"Maybe," said Kuya. He had lost some of his composure since Curry had begun to kibitz, but he was nevertheless still in the possession of a weapon that could easily impale two men, and thus demanded Boy's respect in a large way.

The next strike was a single, lightning-fast jab that left a graze above Boy's left eye. Curry adjusted the tilt of his hat and gave a snort of disgust as blood began to flow over the boy's brow.

"Well, I expect that shall be the temporary termination of your depth perception," he remarked disparagingly. "In earnest, Boy? In _earnest_?"

"It's not my fault you _told _him to kill me!" Boy shouted, bringing the sword down in an ungainly chop that completely failed to make contact with anything but the floor.

Kuya stared down at him, one eyebrow raised. His eyes were cold again—the same look he had worn when he had first entered the room. He was beginning to look slightly bored, which probably meant he was going to fulfill his mission shortly. Certainly.

Without a doubt, Boy was going to die.

The saber's hilt fell from numb, bloody fingers, clattering to the floor. And he turned…and ran.

"_NO!_"

A foot hooked under his, easily unbalancing him, and a cold point needled the nape of his neck. Boy gritted his teeth, knowing there would be no time for an escape.

_World's greatest…? _

_ Is there anything else you would rather do with your life?_

Boy answered himself…and screamed.

He would not have called it a scream—such a word, one might think, would be more accurately applied to a woman's cry of distress. But it _was_ a scream, and one of utter frustration. A teenaged boy, hideously infuriated at himself, about to die.

"That will be adequate," said a sharp voice, shearing through the sound. "Step back, villain."

There was silence. The sword was lifted from his neck, but possibly only because Kuya was so shocked by Curry's commandment.

"…What exactly are you trying to do, old man?"

There was no smile in Curry's voice as he spoke again. "Your services are no longer required. I remove you from the task. Begone."

Another pause, during which the blade was lowered again, pressed not-so-very delicately behind Boy's right ear.

"You suddenly don't want me to kill Boy here."

"Affirmative," Curry replied gravely.

"_Bad answer_," hissed Kuya, and cold steel dug into Boy's skin, drawing blood. "I think I'll just slaughter you both and take my payment."

"I," said Curry, with rather less concern than Boy would have liked to hear from the man who was supposed to be saving his life, "possess no beri whatsoever. By all means, endeavor to kill both of us…however, I dare to suggest that you might have somewhat more difficulty when you attempt such an action with me. Do you credit it?"

The blade was suddenly gone, leaving only a trickle of hot blood behind Boy's right ear, and again he found himself listening to footsteps—harsh and abrupt now, someone running. Steel rang on steel, scraped and sang furiously in the still, hot air of the room. Then, suddenly, there was a gasp, and silence, which lasted for several seconds before something heavy _thump_ed onto the floor.

Boy closed his eyes and held his breath. The wounds he had received were only small ones, but somehow everything hurt now. He was doing his best not to "wallow in self-pity", as Curry would have put it, but it was becoming difficult…

"Arise, Boy," said Curry's voice from above him. There was no sound of compassion in his tone, but the old man was as serious as Boy had ever heard him. He stood.

"All preparations are now completed," Curry informed him, and walked out of the door. "Now, then…let us quit this place. Go after me, Boy. Our next long-term destination may be an enigma, but I shall have confidence that you are able to locate our mode of transportation…"

They did arrive at the boat eventually. The walk there was much like the storm outside the Red Line to Boy—a blur of weariness and discomfort. He focused solely on his mentor's back, eyes half-closed in the white-hot light of the Summer Island's sun. His vision blurred and swayed as he walked, sweat and blood still clogging his left eye. Pain was a dull sting in the back of his mind.

Eventually, his shoes filled with hot red sand, Boy collapsed on the deck of the boat, ignoring Curry's admonitions regarding the blood now staining his deck. Then, as it had developed a tendency of doing, everything went black.

---

He woke up. Something smelled good—savory, spicy.

He slept again.

---

He woke up. Curry's voice was loud nearby, raised over a strong wind whistling in the rigging. It was dark, dark, dark…a cool, cloudy night.

_"…above, his wings thundering withal_

_ So came the mighty fiend upon his prey_

_ The city, vacant as a shattered cup_

_ Save for the maid and Ryuuma, set to slay…"_

He slept again.

---

Boy woke up.

He said, "Water," and then threw up.

"_Grief_," said Curry's voice, with the weary resignation that appeared when Boy disobeyed him. "Over the side, Boy, over the—"

Weakly, Boy threw up again, and then rolled away from the unsavory puddle. "You were singing," he said, and then decided immediately that it must have simply been a very odd dream.

"I was _declaiming_," said Curry, with great dignity. A wet rag, smelling of sea salt, flopped onto Boy's face. "Now, then, if you would kindly cleanse my _deck_…"

Boy took the rag, uncomplaining. It was not the worst work that he could have been assigned, and Curry had not awakened him with an attack. This was an improvement to a normal day on Curry's ship.

"What were you…declaiming?" Boy mumbled, wincing slightly as scabbed-over wounds opened up all over his body.

"_'Monsters'_," said Curry, without bothering to elaborate.

"What's that?"

Curry paused to look around pointedly. "To what are you referring?"

Boy didn't even have the energy to be annoyed. "_Monsters_. Couldn't you just take it from context? What is it?"

"A formidable legend, detailing a story of many centuries ago… About the greatest swordsman in the world."

Boy glanced sharply up at the old man, pausing in his work. "The—"

"Long dead," Curry interrupted. "The identity of the current holder of that title is unknown to a humble traveler such as myself."  
"When _I _am the greatest swordsman," Boy muttered, "I'm going to make sure _everyone_ knows that I am."

"That sounds as though it would become rather troublesome in time."  
"That's your opinion," said Boy under his breath.

"Yes," Curry replied, "it is."

"Curry."  
"Boy."  
Boy hesitated, and then turned to glare at the old man. "You paid that guy to kill me."

"Correct. However, as you have recently witnessed, I did not genuinely wish him to."

"Why…did you tell him to, then?"  
Curry breathed out heavily through his nose, frowning at the sky. "Because, Boy, it was necessary. My goal was to evaluate your response to a situation where your very existence is held in jeopardy." He paused, something Boy had almost never seen him do. "…You took flight."

"He was—"

"You are aiming to become the world's _greatest _swordsman, are you not?" The question was swift as a whip's crack, and more painful than a blow. "When such a state of affairs truly occurs, you must be prepared to risk your life. Ambition is _void_ without risk. This was only a test. Concentrate on that, Boy, as you labor. When you have fulfilled your current designation, you will descend and accompany me in the lower decks."

Boy said, "Sure." Behind him, Curry pried open the trapdoor and dropped down the ladder into his forge.  
Many grueling minutes of scrubbing later, Boy finally judged the planks to be as clean as they would ever be, and tied the rag to the end of a rope. This he dropped over the side, to trail in the sea water. If he was lucky, it would come back relatively clean. If he was not, a sea monster would eat it and Curry would administer a lecture over their fearsome lack of money and give him some other menial chore to do.

Boy climbed down the ladder and into the forge. He had been below decks only once before, and afterward he had always instead taken shelter under in the hollow space under the "upper-upper-deck", as Curry referred to it. Boy, who liked to know the proper names of things, found this extremely irritating.

Surveying the space with a critical eye, Boy imagined this place was rather what Hell might look like if you toned it down several notches and squeezed it into a ten-foot-by-seven room. It was dark, red-lit, and Curry stood over his forge like the supreme ruler of eternal chaos, his eyes gleaming. He was uplit by the orange coals, like an ancient and extremely wordy demon.

Boy felt slightly nervous.

"Do you understand the reason for which I have summoned you hence, Boy?" asked Curry, and Boy had the acute urge to list his sins. He was just trying to think of a sin significant enough to have landed him _here_, of all places, when Curry spoke again. "I believe it is time that you possess a blade of your own."

At this point, thinking of smarmy responses became somewhat difficult, as most of Boy's mental faculties shut down with wonder. He stared, eyes roaming of their own accord around the walls of the small, hot room, fixing on each sword in turn. One of _these_… There was no doubt that Curry was very good at his trade—not that Boy would ever say so to his teacher's face. There were curved, elegant Eastern-style blades, and straight, double-edged swords like Kuya's. Exotic, flared creations gleamed in the corners, shapes that Boy couldn't classify. One of these…Still staring, Boy opened his mouth to ask Curry which ones he was allowed to pick from.

Then Curry said, "Therefore, you shall fashion for yourself…a knife." He hauled on a cord, which hung from the smoke-blackened ceiling, and the flames in the forge gave a great, crackling _rush_. Curry's eyes flashed orange in the sudden fiery contrast.

"Let us begin."

* * *

** There are many shameless references in this story--partly because it's a One Piece thing, partly because it's necessary in places, and partly because it's just so fun.** **If you can tell me what Red Rock Island is, I'll give you, uh, cyber-cookies. Curry has been related to a certain playwright twice in this chapter, and "Monsters" is not mine... If you can get all of these, extra-extra cyber-cookies for you. In fact, the cyber-food of your choice. Just say the words.  
**

** Kuya will never appear again, to my knowledge. Please understand that there will be a wealth of OCs in this story--there have to be. But I'll refer to canon characters as often as possible, because I like doing that. And now...**

**Review replies!**

**the animaniac dude: Curry is crazily fun to write--it's good that you like him. :) Thanks! **

**silverlodi: Thank you! Well...sword...knife...sort of...what's the difference, really? Except, I mean, that length thing. Um. ..A-heh. Well, he'll get a sword of his own eventually, of course.**

**observingangel: Thanks.**

**Pippin's Hyper Little Mushroom: Ayah! :D Good buddy! Reviews are good, and One Piece is good. Read it all the way through, with patience and enjoyment, and never, _ever_ watch 4kids. OP is epic and hilarious. :) Thank you, and, yes, you certainly do deserve a prize. Here you are.**

**Splatter Fall: --bow-- My thanks. It's important to me that any main OCs be believable. So if Curry, at any point, turns into a Gary-Stu, you'll notify me, won't you? XD ...Um. Anyway! Hopefully your brain will return soon--my condolences in that area. I definitely know that feeling.**

**NopeJustMe: Thank you! You, my friend, get bonus cyber-cookies from the _start_. Well spotted! Yes, the kid in Loguetown was, indeed, Smoker. Rude little brat, hm? **

**Senko-Chan: More drunk mini-Mihawk, just for you. XD**

**roo17: That is a great compliment--there are many good fics on this site (although most of them are hard to find).  
**

**SoaringFyreBird: *insert thank-yous for your comments* Bonus cookies for you too, then! I'll try to keep squeezing those in. **

**mihawk: I'm not entirely sure what that means, but if you ever check back on this story, here's a reply that might answer what you're trying to ask. **

**The "pineapple" comes from Long Island, which Luffy and his crew visited after the Skypeia arc. There, fruits such as kiiiiiiiiwis are grown. Thus: piiiiiiiiineapple. A slightly different species.**

**Thank you _all _for your reviews. As usual, all readers have my shameless encouragement to continue your responses, as they make me very happy and give me the motivation to continue this theoretically epic story.  
**

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**I've been doing research on the making of knives, so even if the correct names of various parts of Curry's boat go unmentioned, you'll have an accurate process for Boy's activities in Part IV. But before that, I'm inserting a parody chapter, which should go up...either tomorrow, if I'm fast, or sometime the week after I come back from a trip.**

**I know authors are supposed to show and not tell, but I brainstorm story ideas by drawing, so... You can find Subtlety doodles on my Deviantart account, in a sketchdump (link given on my profile, as I can't make it work here--apologies). ****Just something to see if you're bored and wondering what exactly Curry looks like...**


	4. Part IV: Hunt

**Thought I was gone, didja?  
**

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**I'm going to take a shrewd guess and say that the island Zoro was sent to has something to do with Mihawk. Or swordsmen, at the very least. I mean, all the _swords _lying around are a definite clue. And does the shape of that tombstone seem familiar to anyone?**

**If we get Mihawk's backstory, let it be known that I shall be totally on board with that. It would be _extremely _awesome to actually hear it from The Man. **

**This story is...**

**is...**

**um...**

**well, I mean... It's uh, it's a story. That's about it. Have I already talked about that?**

**Anyway, in this chapter: Boy makes a knife, uses it, and learns an important lesson. Oh, and he collapses a lot. I'm sorry. He really has to stop doing that at some point...  
**

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Part V: Hunt

_"It was the Law of the Sea, they said. Civilization ends at the waterline. Beyond that, we all enter the food chain, and not always right at the top."__-Hunter S. Thompson__, US__ journalist (1939 - 2005)_

It was hot. As he worked, Boy tried to remember whether Red Rock Island or the forge was hotter. For now, he was veering towards the latter. Had he known how accurate his first thought of hell had been, he would have climbed promptly back up the ladder and refused to enter the forge ever—_ever_—again.

Too late now.

Boy hoped that Curry wouldn't force him to make a sword for himself as well when this ordeal was finally over. He was sure that, in this instance, the weapon produced by his amateur efforts would be a warped, ugly, unbalanced thing…

…rather like the knife whose blade he was currently attempting to bevel. For the fifth time. Boy glared sullenly at the steel, which he had been pounding doggedly at for the past week. Curry had told him that morning that if this attempt were another failure, then he would permit Boy a day's "alternate labor". There was no such thing as a work break on _this_ boat. Not for Boy, anyway, although Curry's activities of late, _oddly enough_, had been mostly comprised of lounging on the deck, smoking cigarettes and reading books.

Boy shoved the chunk of steel unceremoniously back into the forge's coals, waiting impatiently for heat to return to it. Ah, yes, the books…

As soon as Boy had admitted to illiteracy—albeit extremely reluctantly—Curry had decided that his secondary duty as Boy's swordsmanship teacher was to make certain that Boy was, firstly, able to read, and, secondly, very well-read indeed. It vexed Boy to no end, but after examining the situation, it rapidly became clear to him that there was no escaping these lessons.

The metal was orange-hot again. Boy checked it against the magnet that Curry had supplied, and, satisfied when the superheated metal showed no signs of attraction, went back to his hammering.

"_I thought compasses didn't work on the Grand Line, old man."_

"_They don't. What, pray, is your point?"_

"_Compasses run on magnets, right?"_

"_That is a crude phrasing, but yes. Correct."_

"_So, then, doesn't that mean magnets don't work on the Grand Line?"_

"_No. It simply means that the object's poles will shift madly as we progress through these treacherous seas—thus the woes of the poor, inconvenienced souls who use the traditional compass. Magnets are perfectly functional on the Grand Line, Boy…"_

Pounding doggedly on, not particularly caring what the result would be, Boy wondered into what

exactly he had gotten himself.

On the upper decks, a faint tapping began, and this continued to increase in volume until it was a near-deafening clatter. Boy was just beginning to wonder exactly what kind of bizarre weather the Grand Line had vomited up now when the first tiny turtle bounced down into the forge. Boy gave it his undivided attention for approximately five seconds, moving cautiously across the room to inspect the shiny, black-patterned shell. It couldn't have been more than three inches across…

Then Curry, looking extremely cheerful, dropped down into the forge with no apparent concern for where he landed. There was a great flapping of brown leather coat, and Boy found himself obliged to retreat from Curry's vicinity as it settled.

"Good evening, Boy!"

"Curry," said Boy sullenly.

"I," Curry announced, "have discovered our midday meal!"

"Oh," Boy muttered, only half-listening. "Really." Then his weary brain managed to absorb the implication of the words, and he turned one cautious yellow eye to peer at the old man. Curry was holding three of the diminutive turtles by their tails. He looked inordinately pleased.

"No," Boy stated.

"Yes," Curry decreed. "Turtle meat is generally edible and very nutritious. Is the forge currently occupied?"

"Well, no, but it was just cooling down when you—"

His teacher gave the quasi-formed blade a blasé once-over. "Not enough room for the tang. Time for a new piece."  
Boy glared.

Turtle meat turned out to be surprisingly delicious. Curry had fried the pocket-sized reptiles in liberal amounts of vinegar, oil, and salt water, and the only real downside to the meal had been the detailed lesson in shelling turtles. Boy wondered vaguely, gnawing on the tail meat of a creature that had been referred to in life as "Number Three", whether the world's greatest swordsman would benefit from such knowledge. Probably he would.

As far as Boy was aware, there was not, in fact, a tradition belonging to the status of "world's greatest". They just…happened. There weren't really any qualifications apart from possessing transcendent skill with a blade. Also, from what Boy had gathered from Curry's enigmatic answers, most men who had attained the status had been defeated.

This did not seem at all appealing to Boy. If he was going to be the best swordsman in the world, he might as well keep the position until death. He even asked Curry of his opinion on the concept, but his teacher just shrugged, chewing industriously at his own meat.

"You may find that you feel differently, should you achieve your ambition," was the only thing he would say.

Boy doubted it. However, as Curry's reply had been purely hypothetical, there wasn't any surefire argument he could make, so he simply didn't try.

After dinner, or whatever it was, Curry gave Boy the task of collecting and storing any excess turtles in a sack for later. Curry wasn't one to let food go when it literally fell into his lap.

Boy took as long about the chore as he dared, checking every corner of the deck in an unwarranted display of thoroughness. Freak rain of turtles… That was new.

There were still about twenty bewildered reptiles exploring Curry's boat, and hundreds more were bobbing about in the dark waters surrounding the vessel. Boy collected several of these as well, trying to elongate his absence from the forge.

It was just as he was about to give in and return to his thankless attempts at making a knife that he noticed the ripples.

The sea was…yes, well known for having waves. It was, after all, _water_. However, the more Boy stared at them, the more they looked like enormous ripples spreading from a single source. They were regular, moving in the same direction, and they grew higher by the second. Boy felt inexplicably nervous, but tried to shrug the anxiety off by dismissing the sea's strange behavior as more bizarre Grand Line weather.

Then he heard the sounds. It was water moving—or, more accurately, something big moving _through_ water. Boy swallowed hard, not turning to look, trying to convince himself that the noises were a product of his paranoid brain. A couple of seconds later, there was a deep, _deep_, grumbling noise.

Boy looked.

Boy screamed.

Boy collapsed.

Boy shouted, "_CURRY!_"

The turtle rumbled again. It was several times larger than the boat, and it was staring at the craft with large, glossy black eyes. It appeared to be deep in thought.

"Currycurrycurrycurry!" Boy scrambled frantically over to the forge's trapdoor, staring down at his teacher's mildly bemused face. "_Curry_!"

"Boy."

"_Curry, there's a turtle!_"

"That is precisely why I directed you to—"

"_Curry, it's HUGE_!"

The old man's face brightened significantly. "By all means, capture it! It shall sustain us for several weeks."

"No," Boy managed, glancing up at the broad silhouette eclipsing half of the sky. "It's, um, it's, it's—um, Curry, I think it's too big for that!"

"Be calm, Boy. Exercise your breath."

Boy hyperventilated for several seconds as Curry remained totally unconcerned and stationary. Then, with a last snort of exasperation, he recovered his breath and leaned back somewhat from the edge of the trapdoor, still glaring past it into the darkness. "Old man, just come up and see it for yourself, okay?"

Then he waited, because, really, what else was there to be done? He still had his sack of _small_ turtles, which would inevitably be all Curry wanted to see in the long term.

Eventually, Curry did ascend, hopping onto the deck with an agility that belied his appearance. He stood, stretched, and surveyed the massive, blackish, weed-coated shell of the creature now working its way past their boat with the sedateness of mountains. The deck rocked in its wake, tilting until Boy thought it was about to capsize and then rolling immediately back the other way. Curry just crouched in the middle of the boat, apparently unbothered by the movement.

After a time, the turtle trundled its way past, leaving one rough, swirling current in its wake, which tossed the boat in circles for a while before eventually subsiding.

Boy stared after the creature, wondering vaguely where it had come from and where it thought it was going. Perhaps it was hopelessly lost. Or maybe it had that bizarre animalistic sense of direction and was aiming for some far shore… Perhaps to the Red Line to lay eggs, or something…

"A 'Big Chelon'," Curry said, interrupting his student's thoughts. "Legend says they often carry elephants on their backs."

Boy glanced at the old man. "What's that?"

"Hm?"

"An elephant. What is one."

Curry paused, frowning, for a moment. "Enormous grey creatures with skin to spare and extremely long noses. Voluminous flapping ears, long tusks, and very small brains."

"I knew a man like that once," said Boy, just for something to say.

Curry appeared to find this quite amusing, and clapped Boy on the back with an unnecessary amount of force. "Humorous, Boy! Now, then…the small turtles that you were designated to gather. They are…?"

Boy raised his bulging sack for inspection, unspeaking. Curry took it with great ceremony, observed its occupants, and then smiled a large and disturbing smile. "Yes, I believe these will do very well. You have acquired a feather for your metaphorical headwear."

"Oh," said Boy, uncertain of what this meant. "Good."

"And with that, let us continue with the forging of your weapon," Curry continued, and strode jauntily towards the trapdoor. All good humor vanishing immediately, Boy followed.

The remaining process was no less troublesome than the start. He was forced to ask Curry what "anneal" meant twice in order to get a proper definition, and then set about despising the process with a passion. _Heat three times, letting it cool at each interval, and after the last warming, let it cool in the _fire_, which will…_ He found the instructions running through his brain at night, when metalworking was the last thing he wanted to think about.

"More delicacy. More subtlety. Boy, do you _truly_ wish to begin over again?"

"No," Boy growled, eyes nearly crossed as he hunched further over the nearly perfected blade.

"Then file with greater care!"

"_Listen, _I'm doing _fine_! It's just your jabbering that's getting on my nerves! It's _my _knife, isn't it?"

Curry merely laughed at this, and Boy knew why; it was _his _boat. There was nothing stopping his teacher from giving him an impromptu swimming lesson at the first sign of mutiny.

Boy kept filing…perhaps a little more gently.

"Why oil?"

"It's the sort of steel," Curry answered through a mouthful of turtle. Boy was getting sick of turtle, and had refused to eat it today. It was _far _too spicy with the squid blood mixed in.

_Ah, Grand Line cuisine._

"You use water, don't you?"

"Yes. Boy! Only the edge! Your aim is to retain the flexibility of you blade's spine—do you comprehend?"

Boy gritted his teeth and did not reply, slowly lowering the cutting edge beneath the surface of the oil. Steam hissed past his gloved hands, hot over his squinting eyes.

In his corner, Curry nodded approval.

_Re-heat once more, craft a handle and tang, sharpen once with the red file and not the green, use hot water to temper the blade—what does temper mean? When you're talking about a blade, the definition of "temper" is to apply—_

Boy rolled over and covered his head with his sea-salt-smelling blanket and tried to block out the thoughts. It didn't work.

On the lower deck, Curry was reading aloud from one of his books, his voice lilting dramatically through the ancient words and complex analogies. Boy did his best to turn his consciousness to spotting symbolism in the verses, and found, to his drowsy surprise, that it helped.

Boy stared down at his creation, inordinately proud of it. He tried not to let it show, certain that Curry would react with his usual sarcasm, but he couldn't prevent the smallest of smiles from appearing on his pink-burned face.

"I finished it," he told the world, running one thumb over the sheath.

"And it is _not shabby_," said Curry, with rather more enthusiasm than could be credited. Boy gave him a cursory glare, and then returned to admiring the knife.

Curry himself had admitted his knowledge of leatherworking to be faulty, and so the sheath was a simple block, as was the hilt. It looked like a small golden cross lying in his hand, a cord fastened to its handle—that had been Boy's idea. He lifted the weapon reverentially, dropping the loop over his head.

"So…what exactly do I use this for?" he asked absentmindedly, wondering whether he would be expected to learn something ridiculous. Curry didn't believe in holding back…

"Hunting rabbits."

Silence.

"…What?"

It took them several weeks to find an island that supported rabbits (as opposed to, for instance, man-eating plants or large venomous snakes). Boy had only a vague idea of what one looked like; rabbits were small-ish, furry, and probably brown.

The Spring Island that they landed on was small, treeless, and overcast, and Boy was loath to set foot on it. It took a great amount of persuasion on Curry's part to make him finally quit the boat's deck—most of which involved some impatient harrying at the business end of a saber.

Once he was actually standing on land, it wasn't so bad. The grass was long, soft, and appeared virtually untouched by pirate or marine. It swayed in ripples around Boy as he watched Curry as the old man sought for wildlife of the correct sort.

Boy waited.

Curry crouched and stood, roamed and stopped. Folded his arms. Sniffed the air in a manner that could have been either annoyance or an attempt to track the theoretical rabbits by smell. Took several confident strides forward and…

Fell.

Boy gaped. It was the first time he had ever seen Curry lose his balance—_ever_. And it had just…_happened_. Simply as that; one minute the old man was vertical, and the next he sort of…dropped, and now there was no trace of him left. It was a little bit disturbing, actually, thought Boy. It was as though his teacher had been jerked under by some…mysterious…creature…

He began to retreat towards the shore. If there were something on this island with him, he would rather be _on_ the boat while Curry dealt with it. That was what Curry did, after all. He dealt with things.

It occurred to Boy as he continued to back away that this was an extremely cowardly thought. It did _not_ belong in his head. He was going to be the world's greatest swordsman, after all. He didn't need—

Something grabbed his ankle. He screamed. The thing laughed, in a way that was suspiciously familiar, and Boy had the presence of mind to summon up his best death glare as Curry surfaced out of the grass like a water monster. He was still laughing.

"Yes, this is a fertile land! There are, indeed, rabbits here!"

"CURRY!"

"Mm?"

"Why did you _do _that?" Boy snarled, still staring fiercely at Curry. The old man stifled another outburst of evil chuckling before replying.

"Nha-! To test your vigilance, of course, Boy!"

Boy stared, at a loss for words to describe the sheer ludicrousness of the explanation. Curry started laughing again, which was even more dumbfounding. Boy watched this for a while, unblinking, until a new question ambled through his brain.

"Curry. _How_ did you do that?"

Curry managed to reduce the laughter to several breathy, consecutive snorts, and choked out, "Do _what_, say you?"

"That…that sneaking up thing…" Boy broke off, exasperated. "Stop _laughing_, already! What _exactly _is so funny?"

"You are…" Curry trailed off again, roaring hilarity to the gray sky with all the refinement of a foghorn. Boy rolled his eyes, at a loss for anything else to do.

"Curry."

"You are so totally lacking in awareness-!"

"I'll _learn _it, if it makes you any less happy," Boy muttered. He was beginning to consider making a second break for the boat. Curry had never found anything quite _this _humorous, and it was beginning to scare him a little—although he would never have admitted this to anyone _ever_.

And then, immediately, the smith sobered. This was, if possible, even more disturbing. This time, Boy drew back instinctively.

"Ah, but that is _precisely_ our purpose in journeying here. In the hunting, location, and defeat of the wily rabbit, you shall be educated in a number of tremendously significant techniques that are _essential _to your selected career. The rules are thus: you may use only your knife as a weapon, and only your non-dominant hand is permitted unlimited movement."

"And my dominant hand is…?"

"I've absolutely no idea," Curry replied blithely. "Let us begin, then. I shall observe from the shore."

Boy blinked. "What, right now? Don't I have to…" He stopped, not entirely sure what he wanted to say.

Curry raised one eyebrow, waited for exactly two seconds more than was entirely comfortable, and then spun on his heel, striding towards the beach. Boy glowered after him, and then, knowing there was no use in protest, turned to the task at hand.

Clearly, this was one of Curry's "no helping" tests. He settled down on the gravelly shore at the edge of the grass, chewing contentedly on a mouthful of turtle as Boy tried to understand exactly how one went about hunting rabbits. He couldn't see any.

Ah, well, clearly they were all just lurking beneath the grass. Boy stared down at the waving stems, searching for any sign of habitation. When none appeared, he theorized that perhaps the rabbits were all sleeping at the moment, or otherwise out of commission…

Or maybe, he considered, Curry had just been lying and there _were _no such creatures on this island.

Well, there was only one way to find out. Boy stared at the sea of hip-high grass surrounding him, scowled once, and then dropped to his hands and knees.

It was rather like entering a different world. Watery sunlight filtered through the blades above him, casting shifting patterns on the powdery dust. Boy sank lower, blinking thoughtfully at the earth beneath his hands and the faint tracks thereupon. He allowed himself a slight smile.

_This will be too easy_.

Taking care not to blur the prints, he set off after his prey.

After what may or may not have been ten minutes, Boy arrived at a slight clearing in the grass that looked suspiciously like the one he had started in. After a moment's consideration, Boy lay down on his back, staring up at the sky, and turned one bleary eye down to the rest of him. He was covered in dust from his shins to his chest, and, of course, he had now endeavored to get the stuff all over the back of him as well. Fantastic.

No, _wait_. _Wait_. This could be a good thing. Camouflage. Lying in wait. No strenuous crawling that made his knees ache, no more itchy welts from grass brushing past his face. Good _deal_. Boy scooted backwards until he was certain that he was completely concealed, dropped his head low to the ground, and fixated his gaze on the paw prints before him.

Boy did not have a great deal of patience. Even something relatively interesting, such as learning to forge an edged weapon, could not hold his attention for very long if the task became too monotonous. Therefore, the activity of _waiting_ for a small, furry animal to theoretically hop past him was not an appealing one. He did his best, but in the end the rabbit really did not seem to be coming along, and there were only two outcomes: go to sleep or stand up and look elsewhere.

Boy was tired. He chose the former.

Curry might have scolded him, but there was the upside to being under the grass; the old man couldn't tell what his student was doing. Boy dozed for a while, dipping in and out of sleep as the light became imperceptibly dimmer. Slowly, he sank deeper into sleep, his breath slowly deepening, dreaming dreams of the world's greatest swordsm—

Something landed on his back. Boy's eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep his body from tensing. It was alive. It was light. It had…_four_ feet, with rather sharp claws, and it was sniffing the back of his neck. Boy thought about trying to stab the creature right there, but immediately reconsidered this. If he missed, the knife's blade would probably have its first blood from him rather than its intended target.

Therefore, with no other apparent options open, Boy twisted around as fast as he could, shaking the animal off, and flailed about blindly in an attempt to capture it. His hands whisked through air and grass, leaving him spread-eagled and panting on the ground, glaring at his own white, bony hands stretched out in front of him. The rabbit was nowhere in sight…

No. Wait. The grass rustled, just _there_. Boy scrambled into an undignified crouch, readied his knife, and lunged in the general direction of the movement. For a second, he cleared the grass, rising vengefully from its depths, rather more comically than Curry had done. The sky was twilight lavender, and the brief odor of cigar smoke said that the old man had started craving nicotine again.

Then Boy crashed back down again, and ribs met earth in a brief yet painful salutation. He opened his mouth to yell, but all air had been knocked from his lungs, and what emerged instead was an elongated, heartfelt, "_Hhhhhhhh_."

Somewhere, Curry was laughing. On principle, although he couldn't see the man, Boy glared.

He almost quit twice, as the task became increasingly more frustrating and ridiculous. But he knew that if he discarded his assignment now, he would be forced to suffer mockery and quite possibly lack of food. So he went on, stubbornly stalking and ambushing rabbits as they came. His ears began to adjust to the slight whispers of grass on fur that marked their proximity, but his mounting lack of patience denied him the stealth he would have liked

That night, there were three more. Three rabbits, each of whom escaped, as easily as the first, and after each miss, a jolly laugh would toll out across the grassy island.

Boy hated it. That was the predominant thought in his mind as he awaited the fifth rabbit, spasmodic with impatience. It was late. He should have been tired, for even after numerous naps in the grassy underworld, his body had been in motion for hours on end, his mind too tense to settle into a proper state of rest. It was the sheer ignominy, and the indignation from it, that pressed him on.

_There-!_

He sprang wildly, propelling himself forward towards the slight sound. This time… This time, certainly… He gave a split second's thought to adjusting the angle of his knife so that it aimed towards his prey rather than himself, and then his hands closed around something and Boy coughed out a cry of victory as his blade sank into…

…Curry's boot. The leather had to be remarkably thick, Boy thought bitterly. There was only a slight rent in the material; it was doubtful that he had even broken the skin beneath.

All the while, as he considered this, Boy had unconsciously tightened his grip on his teacher's ankle. Curry, apparently wearying of this progression, lifted the foot demurely and jerked it twice, much like a cat shaking water off its hind paw. Boy let go, allowing his arms to go slack and flop to the ground.

"How am I doing?" he mumbled, his mouth sour with irritation and dust. His eyelids sagged inexorably, but if Curry had something to say, he had to hear it…

"_Mediocre at best," _replied the old man's distant voice.

"Oh," said Boy. _On the right track, then…_

Then he slept.

"Are we going to wait until they hatch?" asked Boy.

They both peered cautiously over the stairs. A seagull had laid eggs on the upper-upper deck, and these had remained undisturbed for a considerable measure of time, as that area of the boat was mostly neglected. The large, haphazard jumble of a nest was virtually brimming with eggs, which were a delicate sea-green… That was to say, a pale turquoise. Boy had learned that the Grand Line water could be any number of shades of green, from deep, murky forest green to violently bright chartreuse.

"Indeed not," Curry asserted, his eyes crinkling deeply as he narrowed them at the watchful mother gull. "Boy, get thee hence and gather…oh, perhaps five of those flimsy mortal orbs from their maternal guardian."

"Stop talking like that, will you? You've been drinking again," Boy observed. He was stalling. The sooner the eggs were taken, the sooner Curry would make breakfast, and the sooner Curry made breakfast, the less time it would take for the rabbit-hunting to begin anew. And Boy was not eager to hunt rabbits.

"Correct."

"_And_," Boy added, with a sudden flare of inspiration, "you weren't specific. 'Perhaps five' doesn't give me an accurate idea of my obligation." He allowed himself a smirk, which was an inordinately bold move in the situation.

However, for the moment, good fortune appeared to be on his side. Curry simply gave him an unreadable smile of his own and indicated that Boy should fetch back _exactly_ five eggs from the bird's nest. Intending to linger there for as long as possible, Boy crept up the stairs with no great amount of secrecy and stood, staring down into the mother bird's mad, staring yellow eye. Slight apprehension beginning to build in the back of his brain, he extended one hand for the cluster of eggs…

Thirty seconds later, Boy came back down the steps in a peculiar hybrid of terrified dash and wounded stagger. Clutched to his chest were five turquoise eggs, only one of which was cracked. He fell straight backwards, bracing himself for impact as he did so, but even so his spine was jarred excruciatingly against the wood. He lay there for several seconds, wondering whether playing dead would discourage the bird's pursuit and wondering whether it had done permanent damage.

Multiple lacerations crisscrossed his face and arms, smarting and oozing blood. He could actually feel bruises rising on his left shoulder and forearm where it had buffeted him with unexpectedly powerful wings.

"That…hurt…"

"_Boy!"_

Next time, Curry could go and get his own eggs. Boy decided that he had no issues with eating his turtle meat plain.

…_Or not. _

The stuff was actually exceptionally improved by the presence of eggs in the mix. Of course, the blood wasn't particularly flavorful, but it wasn't as though he could have helped getting his lip split open. Stupid bird…

Still, he ate the rest of it. After all, it _was_ food.

Then day two of hunting began, and Boy forgot completely about seagulls, eggs, turtle soup, and anything the world had to offer that wasn't on this tiny Grand Line island.

The handle of his knife greasy under his sweaty palm, Boy squinted through dappled green shadows at what appeared to be the only rabbit hole on the island. As far as he could tell, it was the only exit and entrance to whatever mess of catacombs the rabbits inhabited.

At some point or another, one would have to either emerge from or make a break for the burrow, and Boy intended to be completely alert when it did. So he watched and waited, as he was sure Curry would have told him to do. There had to be some technique to this—he was beginning to learn that there was a technique to everything—and he was determined to discover what it might be, hopefully before the day was out.

That was, if he saw any rabbits before the day was out. So far, there had been no sign, which was wildly exasperating. Boy had been elated upon discovering the discreet little tunnel, and after a detailed examination of the remaining land, had confirmed that it was, indeed, the only one of its kind.

And yet _there were no rabbits_.

Boy's stomach bubbled and complained, egg yolks and turtle flesh churning. The sun's heat battered sweat from his back and face, stirring nausea in his gut. His hair, previously cropped to close shag on his home island, was now a wild thatch of black, hanging damply into his eyes. Boy wondered deliriously whether it looked anything like the gull's nest on the upper deck, stifling a faint, hysterical giggle at the thought of such an object on his head. With the next of such a fearsome bird atop his head, he could hardly fail to be the world's best swordsman…

_No!_ He blinked, sweat making his eyelashes cling to each other. _I used to be rational. I used to be cool and calm and I could _think_. What's happening? _

The Grand Line? That could be it. Men went mad on these seas, and he strongly suspected that Curry was one of them. What if he—oh, there was _no _way in the four Blues that he was going to end up like the old man. _No_ way. Just because some insane geezer was his teacher didn't mean—

No, no, wait. Waitwaitwait. Theory number two: _I'm a student. Any kind of attitude would end with repercussions, so I've unconsciously adapted to it…? _

No. That was stupid. Perhaps it really was just the Grand Line effect. Whatever it was, though, Boy resolved to combat it. Confidence bolstered, he focused once more on the rabbit hole, just in time to see a fluffy white tail vanish into its depths.

He was beginning to suspect that these rabbits were more intelligent than he had originally thought.

After what felt like another hour's worth of waiting, Boy could no longer tolerate hot, sticky, _itchy_ immobility and relocated to a more secluded area of the island. The grass was longer there, in a slight valley that probably collected whatever rainfall this land received. Heat seeping from his skin and feeling minutely more comfortable, Boy settled down without any real expectations of encountering the animals Curry had designated him to pursue.

Perhaps it would be better just to _keep _ waiting…and waiting…and waiting…until Curry finally gave up on making him continue with this ludicrous charade. They could just be on their way and…

…and Boy would be made to target the _next _island's native wildlife instead. No. Absolutely not. He would catch a rabbit, kill it, and cook whatever meat was on it _for himself_, thank-you-very-much.

_Right_, thought Boy, and lifted his head above the grass to survey the terrain. _Where is a rabbit most likely to hide?_

The answer to this question, as swiftly became obvious, was, _Anywhere that I am not._ Which, granted, made rather a lot of sense. It seemed unfair to Boy that the rest of the world had remained rational in response to his madness.

And it _was _madness, too. Boy knew it, too, because he only saw a single rabbit that day. It was a dull but faintly luminescent yellow, and trailed tiny black triangles behind it as it flew past. When Boy stood to report this unusual occurrence to his teacher, the world went a rosy shade of pink and chills slammed down his spine. Then—_aaaoooowww, yes, he was _insane_—_the world _twisted_, _rotated_ on whatever axis was its, _flipped_ so that the ground was _standing _up, parallel to him where it used to be perpendicular…

"Dhfdjhwl," murmured Boy.

He woke up to the smell of boiling turtle. It had become a familiar odor over the course of the last few weeks, and he'd gotten rather ill of it, however good the dish might taste.

It had never made him quite _this _sick, though…

Bony, weathered old hands fastened roughly around his collar and upper arm, hauling him into something like a standing position. Sea air, overwhelming in its suddenly acute saltiness, rushed past Boy as he was manhandled to a rough wooden bar. Head spinning, eyes watering, Boy let his head loll back, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was holding him. No such luck—fingernails dug into his scalp as the mysterious man forcibly hauled him back around, ducking his head down over the rail.

Outraged by this treatment, Boy opened his mouth to speak. Instead, bile flooded his mouth, quickly followed by miscellaneous pieces of turtle, egg, and hot Loguetown spices. Below him, the unnamable contents of his stomach spattered into the sea water, acidic and thick in his throat. For a moment, the flow abated, allowing Boy to hack and haul just enough air into his lungs before it began again. It was truly disgusting experience, which effected his entire body. Tremors seized his torso, racking his ribs and shoulders. A headache began to throb behind his temples as blood pressure built with each retch.

"Apparently," said Curry's voice, raised somewhat over the noises of intense vomiting, "the eggs that were acquired yesterday invoked a negative effect on your bodily functions."

"_Are you k-ahgha—kidding me, old maaauuu—" _Boy decided not to try talking anymore. What was the point if you couldn't even finish your sentences?

"Clearly, you have led a very sheltered life physically as well as socially," Curry commented. "Prepare yourself, Boy, for you are likely to experience many more alien diseases throughout our travels. I admit, yes, that your bodily training has been woefully neglected. Expect to attend to that yourself."

Ah, it was down to just the bile now. Boy's throat convulsed in an attempt to force something else up, but it seemed that all remains of yesterday's meal had been purged by then. His body gave up.

"Good," said Curry jovially. "Now, let the hunting continue!"

Boy paused. "I… I beg your…"

One salt-and-pepper eyebrow arched slowly. Boy halted in his protest, and tugged up one corner of his shirt to swab his vomit-coated chin. Then he stood up, as straight as he could, and performed a passable vault over the railing of the boat, landing in the shallows and striding unsteadily towards land. Allowing his feverish mind free reign for a moment, Boy imagined that he cut the figure of a weary yet determined disciple, pushing forward with the tenacity that would one day make him the world's greatest swordsman.

He reached the shore, where he adjusted his shoulders slightly, squaring them a little in an attempt to communicate a subtle combination of suffering and valor.

"Right," he said, in his best dramatic voice, "let's go hunt…" One hand moved up to his neck, fingers closing around the hilt of his knife…

…which wasn't there…

His restless brain pulsing with bewilderment, Boy staggered around to stare at the boat. Curry was seated on its lower deck near the trapdoor, and as Boy continued to gaze, the old man raised one languid hand in a wave, and then lifted the other to display a small, cross-shaped object.

Cursing, Boy began to slog his way back.

While awaiting the appearance of the day's first rabbit, Boy had more than enough time to meditate on how absolutely moronic his inner dialogue that morning had been. As if he needed any more trouble on top of losing his edge…

Boy allowed his elbows, currently propping his upper body into the appearance of awareness, to slide out from under him. His cheek pressed to the dust, he wondered despondently whether his goal really was an unattainable one. He hadn't been trained for battle since birth or anything like that. He was just an ordinary boy whose teacher wouldn't even give him a sword.

Consumed by apathy, Boy didn't even notice as a small, tan-furred animal hopped by him. It, however, paused to crinkle its nose at this strange and unusual creature before passing on.

Several hours later, Curry arrived, heaved his scrawny protégée up over one shoulder, and informed the still-unconscious Boy that he was relieved of his duties for the time being.

Two days later, all signs of fever and depression had abated, and Boy was able to return to his task with Curry's blessing.

Well, actually, what he had said _specifically _was, "And it is in my foremost inclinations that you should pass at least _one _day of this training _without_ falling cataleptic at the first opportunity." But it was about as close to a blessing as Curry ever came, so Boy took it without comment.

It was time to drop conventional methods, he decided as he descended once more into the lush green underworld. By some unknown craft of their own, the rabbits had swiftly adapted to his presence. Following paw prints and listening for shifting grass would no longer suffice. Boy attempted to dredge a cunning strategy from the depths of his brain, but unfortunately, cunning strategies are never there when you need them. He went back to his old plan for the time being.

There were no results that day, nor the next. Curry made no audible comment, but every day when Boy emerged, empty-handed, from the island's center, the old man would pull a small brown book from the murky depths of his trench coat and make a brief note therein. Boy did his best to restrain curiosity, but there are very few humans in the history of his world or ours who can resist prying into concealed information, especially when it concerns them.

Which was why, when he was removed from training to wash the few garments on the ship that were currently not in use, and just happened to come across the little book in one of Curry's numerous pockets, Boy opened it without a second thought.

Inside was inscribed, in Curry's angular, slanted scrawl…

_Attempt 1: Boy has either demonstrated as-of-yet unprecedented patience, or was overtaken by sleep. In either case, he was unsuccessful in seizing his prey. _

_I begin to lose faith in his potential for any form of subtlety._

_Attempt 2: Boy collapses once more. A more stringent regimen may be required to reinforce his endurance._

Boy's eyes skipped past the remainder of that entry, searching for anything that might hint at what he had to do in order to pass his cruel and unusual ordeal. Nothing. Random words leapt out at him; _mediocre…awareness…uncreative…inadequate use of senses. "Inadequate use of senses?"_

Already thoroughly incensed by a total lack of encouragement or, fact, any helpful information whatsoever, Boy glared coldly down at the meaningless phrase. Curry had probably just left the book there so that his student could read about how totally pathetic he was. Boy came extraordinarily close to just dunking the little volume in sea water along with the coat, just to spite the old man. But… No, there was no use in calling down more of Jamba Curry's wrath than necessary. He set the hateful journal to one side and tried not to breathe through his nose as he lowered the sack of dirty laundry into the waves lapping below.

Stupid old man.

_Attempt number forty, _Boy invented cynically, inching in the general direction of a noise that may or may not have been a rabbit. _I have enjoyed several long and pleasant hours mocking Boy's efforts with my loud, creepy guffaws. It is most humorous._

There was no rabbit. There was, however, distinct and pungent evidence of its presence, which would have been rather more heartening had he not put his hand in it first. Disregarding their freshly washed state, Boy did his best to wipe his palm clean on his pants. If he ever had money of his own, he would use it first to buy a proper pair of shoes, and then a new pair of pants. The baggy things now fastened at his waist by excess cord were definitely not the height of fashion. Anywhere. He tugged them up into a state of decency, or something close to it, and searched his surroundings for fresh signs of his quarry. On hands and knees, Boy shuffled forward again, wincing as he put a little too much weight on his left arm…

A new schedule had been introduced several days ago; in the morning, rather than going immediately to his primary obligation, Boy would first spend several hours practicing swordplay with Curry. The matches were a minor improvement on his previous experience in battle—it was announced beforehand, rather than beginning as an ambush or an assassination attempt. On the other hand, rather weightier in consideration, was the plain fact that Curry was no longer going easy on him. Every blow had all of the man's astonishingly well-preserved strength behind it, and Boy had thus far been helpless to do any more than attempt frantic, clumsy blocks. He had been supplied with a scrapped sword, its blade too brittle for sale. The impromptu weapon always seemed light at first, but invariably grew heavier as the fight continued.

That was one of the perquisites of handling a knife instead, Boy thought, tightening his grip on the hilt. If only he had reason to use it…

An empty day passed. Boy slept, woke, and practiced lunges with Curry.

_Attempt number forty-one, _thought Boy miserably, mentally imitating his mentor's voice. _The process became marginally more amusing today when the heavens unleashed their fury upon Boy as he continued in his futile labors. As I rest in my smoky, hellish little forge, I contemplate what wretched and dismal trials he must be experiencing._

He spotted a flicker of movement, catapulted himself towards it, and felt his feet scrape through the slick mud, flying out behind him. His hands slapped into the earth an inch from the creature's paws, pale fingers splayed in the rain-darkened dust. It stared at him for a moment, and twitched its ears once, sending droplets flying. Then it was gone, vanishing into the underbrush.

Boy rolled over, muck soaking through his shirt, raindrops spattering his face, and swore loudly into the storm. Of course, his knowledge of profanity was as of yet rather undeveloped, so several were repeated, and after a couple of minutes, the rushing of the rain drowned him out. Whether the trails of water running past his eyes were actually tears of frustration was the world's guess.

_Attempt 42_, wrote Curry, perched on the stairs in front of the now-evacuated gull's nest. _Boy stills fails to realize that diving at the rabbits will not "do the job". It is quite humorous. _

He closed the book and continued to spectate.

After the unsuccessful forty-fifth attempt, Boy waded out of the grass, looping the knife's cord over his head. He was fatigued, uncoordinated, and very, very angry.

"Old man."

"Boy," said Curry, raising his eyebrows every so slightly at his pupil's expression.

"I'm not doing this anymore."

"And why, pray, is that?"

Boy clamped his jaws together, trying not to let his teeth grind. _Be calm. _"…Because there's no point to it. All I need to know about being a swordsman I can learn from fighting, but this is just…just…" He trailed off, aggravation blocking his throat, the right words scattering from his mind.

For a moment, there was silence. Curry waited politely for a follow-up, but when none seemed forthcoming, he simply shrugged.

"We shall not depart from this place until you accomplish your purpose. That is all."

"_You_—"

It started as a yell, abruptly cut off as Curry leveled sharp gray eyes at him. No words were spoken, but there was a line there and Boy was about to cross it.

He took a step back.

"…stupid old man," he mumbled. Then he just stood there, unsure of what to do. The day was over, and he generally slept on the boat when he was finished, but after this, Curry would probably tell him to spend the rest of the night inland. Grimacing, Boy let his shoulders fall into a slouch and turned to slosh back through the shallows. But as he did so, a movement caught the corner of his eye.

Maybe it was just because he was so used to following those little flickers in the grass, or maybe he thought Curry was about to attack him again. Either way, Boy turned back around.

"Come on, then," said Curry in the voice of one who has suffered worse. After a moment's suspicious hesitation, Boy gripped the calloused old hand and pulled himself up over the railing onto the deck.

"Thanks," Boy muttered shortly, and then moved towards the space where his blanket lay, waiting.

"I will now advise you," said Curry's voice. "Boy. Use your senses more fully."

_Some help,_ thought Boy wearily, and knelt to swing the mismatched coverlet over himself. He would probably live on this island until he was an ancient old man, an arthritic, senile hermit hobbling after rabbits and talking to the bones of his very late teacher…

That was what he dreamed of, all night long. His sleep was an uneasy one.

The next morning, any trace of Curry's momentary mercy had vanished. Their sparring match was shorter but more brutal by far than any previous day's. Boy was almost glad when he was dismissed to the field with arms aching and a crimson weal from the flat of his teacher's blade rising on his forehead.

_Make use of my senses…_

He _was_. Not all of them, of course, but sight…and sound…and… Well, just those two, actually. But there was no way taste was going to help him, and it wasn't as though he could scent out rabbits like a hunting dog.

Unless, of course, Curry had meant that he should…what? Strain his ears? Look more closely? There were limits to the human body, and Boy knew it all too well. He lay back, letting the weariness of exercise seep out of his limbs. There was no point in discipline by now—if there had ever been a method to his madness, it was gone. When he saw a rabbit, he attacked. When there was nothing to be seen, he relaxed. It was better than torturing himself with constant vigilance.

_Senses._

Boy tried to sleep, but then remembered last night's dreams and hastily opened his eyes again, blinking as the sky's vivid blue assaulted his adjusting pupils. He stared up, letting everything melt away. His favorite times had always been like this—when the passage of time vanished and everything seemed to happen during the course of one long, silent moment. Serenity settled over him for the first time in weeks, and Boy let his brain wander without him, comfortable in his rippling world under the grass.

He could hear the wind moving through the stems and blades, and the rustling whisper all around him as the field. Mesmerized, Boy made his breathing slow, heard his heartbeat throbbing softly in his ribcage. Everything s l o w e d d o w n . . .

There was another heartbeat, another life, nearby. To his right by about four feet, faint and swift, and breathing for lungs much smaller than his. Boy felt it all so perfectly for just a fraction of a second, and then it broke as he moved, still in that dreamlike state, pulling himself over onto his stomach. Dust shifted beneath his hands, soft and smooth.

He breathed out.

And move forward, focusing everything on keeping his movements smooth. Two feet. One foot. Six inches.

The rabbit sat up, blinking suspiciously, and Boy knew that if he didn't move now, he wouldn't get a second chance. His left hand shot out to catch its ears, victory presenting itself to him, and then—

Real time came back. The rabbit shot away in a puff of dust, and Boy's right hand, numb from constantly supporting his body, crumpled underneath him. For a few minutes he just lay there, panting, wondering what on earth had just happened.

He didn't see any more rabbits that day, but there were more traces of them. His prey had gotten a little easier to follow, somehow.

He told Curry about it later—the weird slowness, his sudden bizarre overly-sensitive hearing. He waited for an answer.

The old man took his time in doing so, first dishing out two bowls of turtle-and-salt-pork stew and then uncorking a large red bottle of some sort of whiskey.

"They—whoever 'they' are—say that there are men so advanced on these seas that they can feel a man's heartbeat simply by touching the earth to sense its vibrations." He gulped down a mouthful of the unidentified alcohol, wiped his mouth, and exhaled with great satisfaction. "It is likely, Boy, that the incident you specified was a single occurrence, unlikely to appear again without cultivation and discipline."

"Yeah," muttered Boy, who had been hoping for a more helpful—and, alright, perhaps a more _impressed_—response. "Whatever."

And yet, when the next day dawned, the incompetence that had lurked behind his efforts for so long had faded. Matching Curry's strength was no less difficult, but following the old man's movement was…simpler. Life had suddenly become a little bit smoother.

And within five minutes of that day's hunting…

_Attempt 46: Boy has succeeded, and so we move on before any and all edible resources vanish. It is possible that he is not a completely lost cause. Huzzah._

_I shall allow him to roast and consume the animal's flesh entirely without my assistance. It was, after all, his catch, and if it happens to be possessed of a curious disease, than he shall be the first to know._

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**A/N: These review replies are weird because some of them come from the old Part IV, which has now been deleted. Sorry for the confusion if you actually read these.  
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**So apparently there's also a chance that his name is "Juracule", which, granted, I also like. It would be very nice to know _exactly _what his name is before I come to that.**

**And now, review replies!**

**SoaringFyreBird: Oh, bravo! I do so love laptops. And, yeah, I can see where you're coming from there. I'm rather fond of Mr. Wade, despite his..._unusual_ psyche.**

**AttilaTheBunny: Feeling terrible is not encouraged. When you feel terrible, I feel terrible, and then there's this thing called a vicious cycle. So please, don't do it! *grin* On another subject... Yes, it's one of my pastimes. Sues are so dreadfully hilarious to write and to read-I really just wish they _could _be killed that way. Indeed, I gave up reading them long ago, as hilarity so often turned into aggravation after five chapters in...**

** But anyway! Thank you! *bow* I shall do my best to continue writing and posting!**

**Ilex Crataegus: That.**

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**I hope you all will find Part VI a little more interesting... And whether you're a new reader or someone who's been here since Part I, you are strongly encouraged to review! Even if you're only reading this story to kill time or you have no idea what you want to say! Just knowing that people are reading it is greatly encouraging. And (begging your pardon) I'll just say what I think most authors tend to feel; author and story alerts and favorites are all very well and good, but there's nothing quite as heartwarming as someone taking the time to say what they think of your story.**

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**Flames will not burn me because of the strength of my HEART. 0_o**

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**Now, some answers: Red Rock Island is _not at all strongly based _on everyone's favorite kangaroo-inhabited island. **

**Curry's "Remember your swashing blow" is loosely taken from Romeo & Juliet, from the first scene-one of my favorite lines in it, save for Mercutio's death speech and a lot of Tybalt's stuff. He also recites the snippet from "Monsters" in iambic pentameter, the format used most commonly in The Bard's plays. **

**And lastly, _Monsters_ is, in fact, one of Eichiiro Oda's first manga short stories, about a young swordsman named Ryuuma (bearing a suspicious resemblance to a certain zombie) who...well, that's a surprise. Just look for WANTED! on . Monsters is one of the chapters.**

**And now: Review Replies!**

**Senko-chan: :) That is very good to hear! Yes, mini-Mihawk will have many harrowing ordeals before he eventually gains a reputation... Fortunately, the Grand Line has a way of producing such ordeals at an impressive rate... -ominous music-**

**Sunayoko: Thank you. -bow- I hope that last is a compliment...? Now that you mention it, his personality does somewhat resemble that of Captain Sparrow... Although, in my delirious musings, I have considered that his voice might more closely be matched by V from V for Vendetta. Only older. **

**UnderDog: It's nice when account-less viewers let you know they're reading... Well, except when they flame, but anyway... Why, thank you! I try not to browse OCs, as they hurt my brain. You must have a very durable psyche. And, yesh, Boy will be quite battered by the time he reaches the pinnacle of skill. :D Which will be very entertaining to write.**

**SoaringFyreBird: Broken computer is made of fail. I hope for its eventual recovery. So that you can review. -laughs- Okay, serious now! Aye, Boy will never be particularly enthusiastic about alcohol... Frankly, the whole situation was drawn from his meeting with Shanks in that one episode. :) Mega-Mihawk has no interest in beer.**


	5. Part V: Storm

**This chapter turned out a little bizarre. As I said, this whole story is pretty much unplanned (did I say that?). In the middle of it, Strong World 0 came out (allow me a _squee _for my elation), and now I know SO MUCH MORE THAN I USED TO! It's amazing! This story, therefore, has to take place five or six years before the Pirate King's execution, which means that Boy can _so _not stay on the Grand Line. He'll have to go back to it. **

**Well, there, I said it. I didn't plan this change, and fixed it to go with canon. I'm shameless. Hope you like the chapter. It has penguins in it. Tell me if you've heard of the guy I got the quote from.  
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**Part V: Storm

_"Truly great madness cannot be achieved without significant intelligence."-Henrik Tikkanen_

Another week passed with no sign of an island, during which Boy grew progressively hungrier and Curry sustained his own empty stomach with his curious ability to draw nutrition out of alcohol. Every day was a constant, grueling routine of swordplay lessons and new, torturous exercises. Every muscle in Boy's body ached now, constantly. His arms were limp, his legs shakier than ever. In _some_ countries, Curry had told him quite openly, beginners trained with _blunt_ swords at first. Wooden swords. The kind of swords that left bruises instead of open wounds.

But, on the other hand, it couldn't possibly get worse…or so he thought. On the day before their arrival at the next island, he awoke from a long and well-deserved nap on the upper deck. He rolled over under his odious blanket, tried to swallow down the foul taste in his mouth, and succeeded in standing up. Feeling rather pleased with himself, Boy began the ponderous and wandering journey down towards Curry's forge trapdoor, under which there may or may not have been food.

He never found out. Before reaching that dread portal, Boy was suddenly arrested by a scene of such terrible and mortifying horror that he very nearly raced to the side of the boat and leapt into the ocean.

"_Old man! _Shirt _back on_!"

Curry raised one eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't need to _see_ that!" Boy yowled, wondering frantically how best to cleanse his eyes. Sea water? Too tame. Coals? Hot coals? No, he liked being able to see.

…Just…not _this_.

"It could be worse, Boy," Curry informed him cheerfully, waving a rag that was sopping with freezing salt water. "It could _always _be worse. Has it ever occurred to you that there is an _explanation _for the simple fact that _I smell better than you_?"

"Agh," said Boy, covering both eyes with one hand. "Shirt. On. _Please_."

Silence.

Boy, becoming faintly nervous in the soundless space, cracked his fingers apart, just far enough to glimpse Curry's face.

The old man was giving him a singularly unusual look. If Boy hadn't known better, he might have thought that his teacher looked…surprised.

"'Please'?" Curry repeated, his eyebrows managing to move even further up his forehead, which crinkled into a maze of lines at this exaggeration. "Doth my ear deceive me?"

"Agh," said Boy.

Five minutes later, Curry was safely into his battered old shirt and trench coat, and they were making the most of their rather pathetic meal of fish and unidentifiable crustaceans. Boy had trawled these passing creatures from the sea a day ago, and they had been drying on the deck since then.

Curry was right, he supposed. It _could _have been worse. At least there hadn't been any saggy, loose old-person skin. In fact, from the momentary, eye-searing glance that Boy had gotten before averting his gaze, Curry had seemed to be mostly made of lean, wiry muscle.

Boy shuddered and tried not to dwell on it…

But…there _was _something… Boy's eyes strayed to the ceiling as he thought back, fingers fishing in the greasy contents of his bowl for something edible. There had been…a line?

"Curry," said Boy suddenly, realizing exactly what he had seen, "where'd you get that scar?" Yes, that was right. A long scar, from the nape of the neck to lower back, tiny, neat stitches marching down its length.

Curry, absorbed in picking his teeth clean with a fishbone, did not reply immediately. Boy, impatient and needing something to prevent his mind from disintegrating from that day's scarring memories, said, "I mean, is that from a fight or something? Wouldn't that be…shameful, or…I mean…" He had a vague sense that that was right. If you have a scar on your back, then it should be a mark of ignominy and defeat. Means you turned around.

With that thought, something clicked in the back of Boy's head. A moral law solidified for use in later life.

"Indirectly, yes, it was the product of a battle," said Curry, who seemed unconcerned by Boy's remark. "Attend, Boy, for I shall now tell you an anecdote of my relative youth, when the Pirate King was still a rookie."

_Oh, good, _thought Boy, with only a hint of sarcasm in the sentiment. Whatever else the old man might be, Curry was a magnificent storyteller.

"In distant days—then my hair was quite red, incidentally—"

"You had red hair?"

"Correct. Such a pleasure to know that you are able to hear me speaking. Shut up. In any case…

"In those days, I was a wild and rather less philosophical stripe of fellow, with a penchant for unreasonable conflict—"

"I think you still are. Ow!"

"—especially in the presence of musical accompaniment, oddly enough. As full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, as they say. My residence was wherever I happened to be at the moment, and as such most South Blue islands would rally a mob as preemptive action whenever I made myself known."

"Wow," said Boy, a little skeptically.

"Oh, yes," Curry continued. "However, during one such instance, I set foot on the island anyway, as I had been without nourishment for over seven days and such a thing can be wearying, as you are aware." Boy's stomach rumbled.

"In escaping my assembled attackers, I at once became helplessly lost, and so stumbled into a small and rather shabby bar, seeking at least intoxication. There I became immensely drunk, but my excruciatingly vacant stomach forbade any rowdiness on my part…for the moment.

"It was at that point that, quite coincidentally and at almost precisely the same second, the mob that had been chasing me entered the vicinity, and someone in a corner struck up a devilishly catchy tune."

Boy, who had been waiting, somewhat impatiently, for the part when Curry was chopped open, sat forward a little.

"I knew, of course, when my foot began to move of its own accord in keeping with the tempo, that I had absolutely no chance of scaping a brawl. Therefore, being an honest man with myself, I stood and, without any great pretense, set upon them with a powerful fury."

Boy tried to picture it; young Curry (without wrinkles? Was that possible?), laughing madly as he whirled among the bewildered townsfolk, sword drawn…

He considered this.

"Curry, did you try to kill anyone?"

"I find no entertainment in the demise of another human being," his teacher sniffed. "Especially not at my own hands."

…sword drawn, probably taking more than a little enjoyment in spilling some blood. Oh, and red hair.

…Creepy.

"At some point, though I could not for my venerable life recall exactly the cause, the pointy reckoning was shifted to the outer streets." Curry paused to take a swig of his whiskey. "Ah, and on some juncture, many began to attack me in earnest, and at the very time when I could enumerate them as fifteen, I resolved that it was an excellent moment to run for my dear life."

"So…it _was _a shameful thing," Boy observed. "You ran."

Curry _laughed_. Boy, taken aback by this reaction, turned red with indignation. He'd just pointed out something _serious_, and there was _no _way that could be wrong, because the old man had _told _him after that stupid fight with Kuya all about running away!

"That, Boy, was not a duel! It was, in fact, a _fracas_. A battle of many. I had no obligation to remain."

"And you _paid _that guy to try and kill me!" Boy exclaimed, infuriated.

"That, Boy, was a _test_. An ordeal to gauge your reaction," Curry replied, completely unfazed. "Now, then, where was I…? Ah, yes. I scarpered and they, in the spirit of the event, gave chase. As it often is the case in such situation, I found myself using as my escape route the rooftops of the town's various and sundry buildings."

"_Often the case?" _Boy blinked once or twice, attempting to spot any trace of logic in this. None presented itself. Clearly, Curry was a completely different kind of human. If he was human.

"However, several of my pursuers were either incensed or unintelligent enough to quit the hunt, and so I was forced to seek an exit of my own via the air."

Boy considered this. "…You jumped off a building?"

"Correct! However, I somehow contrived to choose an inconvenient point of egress, and found myself falling on a direct collision course with a spike extending from the wall below…"

"A…spike?" Boy stammered, raising one eyebrow in disbelief. It was becoming more and more difficult to give the story any credit whatsoever. "Why was there a _spike _there? Old man, are you just making this up as you go along?"

For a moment, Curry looked vaguely affronted. "Certainly not! It was the fashion of that archipelago's architecture that all hand-lit streetlamps were attached to iron poles extruding from the walls. And by some unusual and inconvenient flaw of design, the ends of these were rather pointed."

"You could have just _said _so," Boy mumbled, glaring at his teacher.

"Far too troublesome. So. As I fell, I experienced a distinct and searing discomfort, which extended along my spine, after which I lost consciousness. When I awoke, I discovered that my new lodgings were the cramped and rather tedious confines of the town's jail. But that is another story."

"Who sewed up the…the, uh, cut?" Boy asked, although, imagining the incident, "cut" seemed to him to be rather an inadequate word. There must have been a lot of blood…

"The prison's doctor, of course," said Curry, who seemed again almost genuinely surprised. "Most islands have them, if, indeed, they have a prison. Most become well-accustomed to mending injuries from broken bottles and rusty knives. He did rather a neat job of it, I believe, although I have seldom had the chance to inspect the stitching myself."

"Yes," said Boy absentmindedly. "Very neat."

He was wondering whether he would ever have to sew _himself _back together…and why he might have to do so at all.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't hear Curry's voice until the side of one tough, bony hand slammed into the top of his head. Boy yelped.

"We are approaching another island," Curry stated, in the loud and rather overly-firm voice that meant he had had to repeat it several times. "I suggest that you direct your focus to steering us safely to its shores."

Suddenly eager for a chance for fresh air and, more importantly, _food_, Boy clambered up the ladder and hastened to direct the boat towards a large, heavily-forested island.

By all appearances, this new land was completely uninhabited except for, perhaps, the numerous silvery fish filling the shallows and great swarms of bugs that sometimes rolled past in great, humming clouds. Boy did his best to stay clear of these as he and Curry made their way down the soft golden beaches.

It looked rather like a tropical paradise, really, Boy thought, inspecting the terrain. Just no big, colorful birds. He was pretty sure, in an abstract sort of way, that a tropical paradise needed those. Then again, everything he knew about such things came from Curry's books.

"Boy!"

"What."

He barely had time to notice the blur of movement, but his reflexes were no longer those of the skinny, cold boy on his home island. One pale hand shot up to catch the sword before he knew it was there.

"What's this for?" he muttered, scowling down at the leather scabbard. It was Curry's saber, which meant that whatever the old man had in mind included a serious chance of violence.

"Go and seek out the inhabitants of this land," Curry commanded, settling down with his back against a tree. "They shall know best the edible resources here."  
Boy frowned, unmoving. "We don't _know _anyone lives here. It could be like the last island, with just rabbits. And why _me_?"

"Because the alternative displeases me."

"In other words, you just don't want to."

"Correct."

"But we don't _know _anyone _lives_ here," Boy reiterated, trying to keep a whine out of his voice. It didn't work very well.

Curry narrowed his eyes. "Don't we? This is a small island, Boy. You should be able to spot it…"

_Oh. _Boy swore under his breath. Another test he'd failed to pass on the first try. _Inhale, exhale… _He tried to listen, but was immediately distracted by a shifting of light past his lowered eyelids. He opened his eyes again, staring into the trees. There was something…moving?

"Boy! Listen—"

"Yeah, I see it," Boy murmured, craning his neck to peer into the foliage. "Yeah, there. There's…something out there…"

Curry turned, squinting inquiringly in the same direction. "Boy, I declare that your ocular acuity is failing."

"No," Boy insisted, taking several cautious steps forward. "I see something. Right there, coming towards us. It's black and white, and short. I think it's an animal."

Curry opened his mouth to contradict, but then paused and frowned. Listened. Stared once more at the point Boy was indicating. "Are you certain, then?"

Boy nodded; he was now completely positive. "Look, it's coming closer."

It was only once the creature had come within a hundred feet of them that Curry finally spotted it. He halfway-turned to look at Boy, raising his eyebrows. "That, child, is a feat of vision that has utterly avoided me throughout my numerous days on this earth. Exactly how did you manage that?"

Boy snorted disbelievingly. "My eyes _look _odd, old man. That's all. It's not like they're actually a hawk's, or something stupid like that."

Curry's expression turned to one of dry impassivity. "Do not take me for a total moron, you fool. I am well aware of what is humanly possible and what is definitely not."

"Maybe _your _eyes are just going bad," Boy muttered, reaching up instinctively to massage his temple. "I'm not doing anything differently than I ever did, and I'm _not _inhuman."

"_Awk._"

They both looked down, distracted by the curious, braying chirp.

"What…is it?" asked Boy after a moment of silence as they regarded the animal. It was small, black-and-white, and appeared to have wings and a beak, although the fluff coating it looked more like fur than feathers. Still, it had to be a bird of some kind…

"A penguin," said Curry, kneeling to look intently into its serious, round black eyes. "Most curious. Tell me, what is it that you require?"  
"Um…" Boy blinked several times, trying to think of anything that he required at the moment. Nothing came to mind. "Uh, well…"

Curry was talking to the penguin.

It squeaked once, bobbed up and down in an apparently significant manner, and then waddled down the coastline, wings slapping its sides as though gesturing for them to follow.

Curry did so. Boy was completely prepared to return to the ship and await the old man's return (or lack thereof), but curiosity suddenly consumed him and, after a second's agonizing, he ran after the man and the bird.

Five minutes of walking, their silence punctuated only by footsteps and additional squeaks from the penguin, led the trio to a broad cliff face, overhung by a thick curtain of gray-green lichen. There, their monochromatic guide halted, bobbed a couple more times, and waddled its way towards the lichen…and then through it.

Boy gaped. Curry chortled, as though delighted by this development. "A hidden entrance to some conclave's inner sanctum! How intriguing!" And he followed the penguin without hesitation.

Once again, Boy wavered slightly before going after him. After all, there was no knowing what was past the hanging moss. These could be _ravenous, flesh-eating _penguins, for all they knew. After all, the Grand Line was a strange and certainly not merciful place.

But after a couple of seconds, there were still no screams of excruciating pain, so, his stomach growling in a sudden return of his forgotten hunger, he pressed through the curtain…

There was a chorus of squawks and chirps now, which bore a suspicious resemblance to a cheer. Boy glared up…and up… High above him, perched on the knotted tree roots protruding from the concave cliff-face were hundreds—_hundreds_—of the bizarre little birds. All…cheering.

"Curry," said Boy, edging towards the man where he stood, apparently enjoying the attention. "Um…Curry… I—I think I need to eat something. I'm having some…some kind of hallucination here…"

"We," said his teacher with great dignity, "are traversing the seas of the _Grand Line_. What cannot be proven as a hallucination is most likely reality."

"But…" Boy, about to utter the words, _There's a crowd of penguins cheering for me_, shut his mouth again as he realized how totally bizarre they would sound out loud. He revised the sentence. "But what do they want us to do?"

"Absolutely no idea!" Curry replied happily, lowering himself into a crouch. "I suggest that we wait…and find out, as they say."

"Oh," said Boy morosely. "Right, then. Let's just wait for the penguins, then, shall we?"

"Indeed!"

It took a while. In the meantime, Curry declaimed audaciously for his rapt audience (which did not include Boy) and even managed to choreograph the birds' applause so that it moved around the circle in sections of the crowd. Boy glowered from his place in the shadows, wondering sullenly exactly when they would finish and get well away from this island. He was beginning to dislike the peculiar euphoria Curry seemed to derive from being there.

_Is this supposed to be training? I think not. Just a chance for the geezer to go on some sort of ludicrous ego trip because some _animals _think he's the best thing since—_

Something nudged him. Boy sent his fiercest death-glare out of the corner of one hooded eye.

The penguin blinked at him once. There was a plate on its head—a white porcelain plate, of the type not typically found on islands inhabited only by beasts. There was a fish on it. Boy stared. The bird squeaked once, which somehow came across clearly as an invitation to take the plate. When Boy, his stomach now gurgling furiously at the smell of the well-roasted meat, attempted to take a bite of it, the penguin pecked sharply at his hand, beady eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as though in warning. Somewhat disturbed, Boy placed the plate to one side and tried to pretend the hollow space in his stomach wasn't growing more painful by the minute.

"Boy!"

Curry had a plate as well, also topped by a fish, cooked brown in some penguin-made fire elsewhere. He nodded to Boy, motioning for his protégée to stand and approach him. Boy did so, somewhat nervous now under the collective gaze of the crowd above.

"I have gathered the rules of this game from our hosts," said Curry, delicately adjusting the position of the plate balanced on the fingers of his left hand. "We are to do battle until one of us surrenders by way of allowing his respective dish to fall to the ground. Afterwards, the champion is entitled to both dishes as a victory meal."

Boy blinked, dumbfounded, at his teacher. "…How do you get all that…from a _penguin_?"

"I am a man of many talents, Boy," Curry replied dismissively. "On the vaguest hunch that a situation such as this might occur, I included an extra scrap sword for my use. I shall generously allow you possession of my own blade."

Boy stared weakly at the old man. "You…_thought _something like this would happen?"

"Excellent," Curry muttered absentmindedly, giving his saber a cursory once over before tossing it to Boy. "Your hearing is as flawless as ever. You need not continue to ask me whether it is accurate."

Boy caught the sword, still gaping. "But…but…how could you _possibly _predict that we would be kidnapped by penguins and forced to fight in some sort of—of—"

"Food match," Curry supplied.

"Food—what?"

"Something like a death match, I believe. Except that we appear to be playing for food."

Boy's stomach rumbled thunderously, and his mouth tightened slightly as pangs shot through his abdomen. "Great. Fantastic. Let's go, then."

"When the horn blows," said Curry, "then we shall begin."

"How do you _know _that?"

In the distance, a trumpeting cry blared over the tropical landscape. At some point during the following millisecond, the saber must have somehow been unsheathed and brought up in a passable guard, but Boy had no conscious recollection of doing so. Still, there it was, right in the way of Curry's first blow. The boy's biceps twanged under the moment's pressure, and then it was gone and the flow of moves told Boy that it was his turn to take the offensive. It was a teaching fight, the kind he had learned to recognize from hours sparring aboard the ship. Curry wasn't going easy on him, but the objective wasn't total defeat; it was to make Boy make the right moves.

Two problems. Firstly, the plate in his left hand was severely impeding his movement. Second, he was too hungry to make the "right moves". Therefore, Boy went with the most illogical tactic he could think of and lunged high instead of cutting low, leaving himself completely open to any attack that Curry's ancient, diabolical mind might concoct in the following fraction of a second.

_Back! _

A line of pain scrawled across his cheek, but there was no jab to his stomach, no sign of injury elsewhere. When Boy adjusted enough to see Curry's face clearly, he registered only incredulity on the lined features. Gritting his teeth, Boy tilted his hand, trying to re-balance the slipping plate. Miraculously, the fish had somehow stayed on it throughout the first exchange of strikes, but there was no telling how long that would last.

Well, it would have to, anyway… He had to win. If he won, he would get food. And food was the priority right now. Boy attacked again, putting all his skill into a pointlessly reckless offense. The fish slid about wildly over the sparkling white porcelain, sometimes shifting nearly halfway off of the plate before Boy corrected it hastily, earning himself an arm wound and a widely torn sleeve that would have to be mended later…

_Stupid old man! _Focus, focus, all your mind on the sword—there's a _touch _there, a turn—shift the angle of his attacks—

Steel bit into his shin. Boy swore aloud, berating himself for not noticing the feint. The sun pounded down with an unmerciful tropic heat, but he wasn't tired yet, so maybe Curry's vicious new regime was actually paying off… Nothing wrong with additional stamina. He would need it, he knew. He would need everything…

A slice opened up on his collarbone, hot blood trickling down his chest as he backed away, uncomfortable in a shirt that was clingy with sweat. Curry wasn't laughing and mocking as he usually did during their practice duels. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he appeared to be considering something of great importance, watching Boy very carefully with those sharp gray eyes. He dodged forward—Boy blocked him, but the blow was light enough that it had to have a follow-up, probably to the left, where his defense was weakest—

He blocked—_Yes!_—and then winced as a flicker of motion brought pain flaring in a streak down his right arm. Boy shifted back, moving swiftly away from his teacher for some respite, but Curry followed, attacking non-stop. _Taking stock of all injuries…_ Multiple but invariably too shallow to do damage. Superficial. Boy scowled, thrusting forward more aggressively than he should have, as the blow went wide of its original target (Curry's shoulder). But Boy, instead of drawing back in an attempt to save the little guard he had left, swept the saber down in a powerful arc towards Curry's arm, intending for just that once to go clean through it, to make the old man realize he was _serious_.

He missed, and the sword sank into the sand, the plate and its contents dropping inexorably off his hand in slow motion.

"Well, Boy, it appears that—"

He was weary, furious, and _famished_. There were two hearbeats, his and another, a silence within fury… "_ANNOYING!_" _Fast, fast, fast—_sand trailed behind the saber as he wrenched it out of the ground, the flash of its movement leaving green flickers over his vision as it blurred past his mentor's face. Boy stood there, panting, teeth bared with frustration as his stomach complained loudly of its emptiness.  
"I'm _hungry_, you dense old man! I've got to eat something that's not turtle or I'm certain I'll go completely crazy, so you might as well just keep fighting me!"

He stood there, breath subsiding slightly as he waited for an answer, becoming more and more apprehensive as Curry just remained where he was, sword lowered, one hand raised to his face. Boy blinked, squinting, trying to make out Curry's eyes under the shadow of his hat. Then the old man lowered his hand, and Boy saw what it had been covering.

Blood. A scratch across the left cheekbone, just deep enough to be visible. Boy took one step back, inexplicably alarmed by this, trying to remember the last time he'd…he'd…

…Had he _ever _landed a hit on Curry? _Ever_? Thinking back, Boy couldn't recall a single time that he'd managed to best his teacher in a fight. So he probably should have been happy about finally succeeding, except…

…well, at the moment, Curry looked rather more frightening than he ever had before. The expression on his face was something like a combination of ferocious intensity and a kind of disturbing elation. Slowly, he lowered his own plate of fish onto the ground and then leveled his blade directly at Boy's heart.

"_Is that how it is? Then rise up, as they say, and _bring it._"_

Boy had only time to think, _This is bad_, before his arm once more moved of its own accord, probably saving his life, as Curry now appeared to be out for blood. Boy thought of Curry's younger, brawling, red-haired self, and wondered whether it had returned with a vengeance to possess its later body. It wasn't an improvement in speed, nor strength—Curry had long ago ceased to go easy on him in those areas. No, it was something about his style… It had grown...simpler? More complex? Boy wasn't sure whether it was either of those, but something was different and he was really going to die if it stayed that way.

So he laughed and attacked back.

Five minutes later, blood crusting over numerous wounds, itchy in the sunshine, Boy collapsed against the cliff wall. One hand crept towards the dropped fish, seized it by its greasy tailfin, and raised it slowly up before his eyes. He inspected it, groaned once, and then set about dusting grains of sand off it. Better than nothing, anyway. Just so long as he didn't choke on a bone or something.

Curry was gathering more cheers from the crowd. After the face shot, Boy had been completely unable to get past his guard even once. Maybe it was a start, though…if he could beat Curry, then he could leave the old man and learn from the real world what swordplay was.

The thought should have scared him—especially after the incident on Red Rock Island. But Boy wasn't scared. Maybe that was stupid, he thought, biting into the layers of sour, chewy fish meat. Maybe it was just the kind of confidence that turned up in the absence of danger. But it didn't feel quite like that.

Beat Curry. Defeat a real foe. Take a name. Get a bounty. Boy grinned, wondering what amount of money the World Government would offer for his capture from the offset. The younger they assigned him a bounty, the better. Hunters would go after a novelty—the younger the perpetrator, the higher the reward, the more chances he would have for a real fight.

Boy spat out a fish bone absentmindedly, feeling a little bit better about the day's occurrences. Who knew, maybe the Log Pose would set fast and they could get out of this cursed place before it began to destroy his brain.

Curry was coming back from his rounds. Boy waved the half-uncovered fish skeleton at him, speaking past a mouthful of meat.

"Hey, Curry. Curry!"

"What."

"How long do the, uh, penguins say it'll take the Log Pose to set itself?"

Curry smiled, which caused Boy immediate unease. He frowned back, waiting for an answer that would almost surely displease him.

It did.

"Two _weeks_?" Boy tried to restrain his disbelief, but it wasn't easy. "_No! _I…don't _want _to stay here for two weeks! I don't like it here, already!"

"Too bad for you," Curry informed him, in the tone of one who has heard the phrase said but doesn't actually know what the words mean when they're put together like that.

Boy groaned and rolled over, letting one sweaty arm flop limply over his eyes. "I'm going to sleep, old man. Wake me up when I have to fight you for food again."

"Ah, you've already picked up on that?" He seemed impressed. "Very well, Boy. When you have hunger once more, then."

Under the vicious heat of the summer island's sun, Boy's life was once again arranged into a pattern of hellishly character-building activities. Build muscle in the morning, until there's too much pain to go on, then take a break before Curry hauls you off to cross swords in the great penguin arena (and every time he had to restrain the urge to bash his head into a tree trunk just from the stupidity of those three words put together). On a good day, he wouldn't have to pick his fish out of the sand and bother with trying to get all of the little grains off of his bony, burned breakfast.

Still, he couldn't help the sneaking suspicion that he was improving, and that Curry somehow approved of it—after all, what else could have caused this new progression in sadism? Only a serious step up in skill, he was certain of it.

…Except he was still losing against an old man, who certainly wasn't anywhere close in skill to the greatest swordsman in the world. That was an issue.

So he tried his best every day to spot a flaw, a pattern, an opening, in Curry's defense. None seemed forthcoming. The cut on his cheek had closed over days ago, leaving only the faintest red weal. Curry clearly possessed none of Boy's impulsive urge to pick at scabbing injuries.

Halfway through the second week, Boy reached a record in his grueling routines of muscle exercises, and Curry allowed him an easy win for a fish that was not coated in sand. This gave Boy a full stomach and absolutely no sense of fulfillment.

Stupid old man.

It might have seemed pointless to the emaciated teen so long ago; preferring a fair win in a fight to eating well. But, as he was now constantly reminded, he honestly was not that person anymore. He had a name, if a stupid one. There was someone in his life who would speak to him without flinching—albeit with a total lack of respect. His life had a purpose now, no matter how unattainable it might seem at times…

…Hm.

Looking back over this list, Boy began to wonder exactly what was so preferable about his new life in comparison to the old. There were far more near-death encounters, and he was sailing on the most bizarre and treacherous seas in the entirety of the world. So what exactly was the likable factor in this mess?  
_It's fun._

"Oh, _sure_," Boy muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to bring his chin a little bit closer to his knees, his abdominal muscles burning. "_Fun." _

"What is that, Boy?"

"_This_," he grunted, sparing Curry a death glare, "is—_fun_—"

"Oh, good," his teacher remarked jovially. "You may do fifty more after this, then, if it pleases you so."

Boy groaned, collapsing back onto the sand. "Old man, that was _sarcasm_."  
"I know!"

They stared at each other for a moment, impervious glee meeting hellish loathing. Then Boy pressed both hands to the back of his head and started again, almost eager for the point when the muscles would just stop working…

"_What—did you call—these again-?"_

"Crunches," Curry sang, and gulped down another swig of whiskey with reckless abandon.

…_Fun?_

Steel clashed and scraped and gleamed under the merciless sun, and Boy was having just as much trouble fighting off hunger as he was keeping Curry at bay. He'd actually managed to get away from yesterday's match without a scrape, but that was mostly because he'd been distracted by the fact that there were now penguins above on the cliff top now had the letters of Curry's name pained across their white underbellies in a vibrant shade of red. Boy had no supporters in the crowd of penguins, and this suited him pretty well, thank-you-very-much. He didn't need small, chubby, flightless birds to cheer for him, no matter how happy it seemed to make his teacher.

Pain flared in his lip—the barest cut, but it burned furiously and searing jolt that shot down his chin as he opened his mouth to yell was enough to leave his guard open for a jab to the chest.  
_Curry _was _laughing_. Boy _hated _it when he laughed like that. It meant something disadvantageous was going to happen, and that it would be an inexorable process of losses, and…

…_Oh! _

Boy, stunned by this sudden revelation and wondering why he hadn't thought of this sooner, mentally drew back from the fight as well as he could for the pain, and assessed the situation. It was like…the game he'd heard of…chess. High-speed chess. And he was being utterly decimated.

Well, that was bad. Or it would be, if the object of the game was to avoid injury. Boy smiled, and then wished he hadn't as fresh blood pulsed through the cracked skin and oozed into his mouth. He paused to spit, hating the taste—Curry drew a long red line down Boy's left arm, and drew back to guard again, but now he'd left an opening where he shouldn't have…

…surging forward again, disregarding whatever damage might come to him, Boy _reached_—and just _barely _managed to slip the tip of his blade under the plate of fish balanced elegantly on the old man's hand. Curry, of course, had seen it coming a second after Boy had started, but to the boy's surprise, this wasn't enough. The plate was recovered. The fish was not, and toppled towards the sandy ground.  
And then, well, the old man managed to catch it before it touched the earth, and therefore was exempt from the punishment of eating dirty meat, but that didn't matter, because Boy had won. He stood there, blood dripping from various and sundry wounds, and wondered whether it was worth it. It was still hot. He still hurt all over. And the blasted fish was still as clean as ever, which, granted, wasn't especially clean at all. But still…

"Our most gracious hosts…" Curry began, and then slammed one hand into the top of Boy's head. Boy glowered at him, knowing he hadn't been listening but hating that the geezer thought it was necessary to remind him like _that_.

Curry continued as though nothing had happened. "Our most gracious hosts have informed me of this: the sequence of islands that we have deigned to follow is one of the balmiest and most gentle chains."

"Oh," said Boy. "Well, that's—"

"They also tell me," said Curry loudly, "that after this point, we will likely be swallowed whole by the most vicious tempests that this fatal Line has to offer."

"Oh," said Boy, and had nothing to follow that with.

"The Log Pose has set itself," Curry added, and turned on his heel. "Gather as many edible materials as you are able and we shall rendezvous aboard my vessel as soon as is possible."

"But," said Boy, and couldn't think of anything to follow it up with. He did what he was told, which didn't take long, and considered as he gnawed cautiously at a random fruit that the Curry's translation of the penguins' language may have been flawed. For that matter, why on earth should he believe that his teacher had actually communed with the birds?

What could Curry gain from lying, though? He'd exaggerated before, but Boy could tell when people were lying most of the time, and the old man didn't have any reason to.

He wasn't scared.

He was just…

…scared.

Boy slapped himself in the face, and, having done so, realized that it did absolutely no good. He was still scared.

He paused. No, scratch that. His body was scared. He could feel his breath shaking, his heart beating faster, his legs cramping spasmodically at the very thought of stepping back onto the boat and entering the alleged jaws of the storm. But his mind…

No, he wasn't scared. He showed all the symptoms of it, which wasn't fair, but in general, nothing was.

He went back aboard, loaded down with flora that had appeared to be edible. Curry gave him a nod of semi-approval, saluted his farewell to the penguins, and then…they set sail again.

The air was warm and the seas were clear. The sky was a perfect, crystalline blue. Boy, nibbling at an unidentifiable red fruit despite the crack in his lip, couldn't help but think that the penguins had been lying.  
Then he tried not to think about what he'd just thought.

Something, he thought, was happening to the sky. It was still a lovely pure blue, but it was…rippling?

Like a heat haze, Boy thought, and then felt every hair on his body stand on end at once.

It was an unearthly, prickling, slithery feeling, and it only got worse when he tried to smooth down his ragged, untrimmed hair. On the upside, he thought, looking around, his hair wasn't hanging in his face anymore…

It was at this point that the mast caught fire. Boy opened his mouth to shout, but then he looked up past the flickering crown of green flame.

A mass of bruise-purple and jet black clouds roiled ahead of them, and the frothing, chaotic waters beyond were a disturbing contrast to the smooth sea now slipping past the bow of the boat.

Curry was nowhere in sight—he had to be in the forge, but even as Boy ran towards the trapdoor, a gust of cold, moist air flooded the deck with hammer force. He'd felt it before—the old men back on his home island called it a down-draft, and it _always came before a storm_…

Boots moved past him, steady even as the deck began to pitch. Boy was terrified now, all the nerves in his body screaming at him to just lie there and cover his ears. But there was a core of something else there, too. Exhilaration prompted fire into his limbs, readying him for a fight with an intangible foe, which was _stupid_, because it was _storm_!

He stood up, looked into the gaping maw of the gale, yellow eyes wide and astonished, taking in every detail of the sparking black wall. Orange sparks danced around Curry's hair, which had puffed up into a silvery halo around his now-hatless head. He was silhouetted against the eerie flame in the depths, and Boy thought (just for a fraction of a second) that his teacher was just as afraid as he was.

Then Curry turned around, and he was wearing the maddest, widest, most jubilant grin that Boy had ever seen on his psychotic, wrinkled face.

It was more frightening than the storm.

"_Haul a line! Tack it 'round! Let sing the chords of those fatal chords, shaking 'neath the bow of destiny, the very fiddle of Luck's lady!"_

Was he singing? Was he just talking to hear his own voice? The winds were howling now, and Boy couldn't hear Curry's voice over it, except as a dull drone under the lacerating currents. It ripped at Boy's hair, tore at his clothes, sent the whole ship into a ponderous, rocking spin… He thought he was going to be sick, and then forgot to be when the hail started.

He would have like to say that the rest of it was an endless blur, as it had been with the storm by Reverse Mountain.

Unfortunately, he wasn't fond of lying.

It was Hell. It was vast and black and it stank of ozone and tasted of blood and hail. He would have liked to think he was being dramatic here, but he remembered the scent of it distinctly, and there it was.

If anything could fall from the sky and all things would eventually fall from the sky, they would probably end up here. Boy thought he saw snakes at one point, and something with claws landed on his head, but it was gone in a crack of lightning. Through the whole ordeal, there was Curry laughing in the background of his subconscious, enjoying every second of it. That…was just not right.

It rained fire, then white birds, then it just rained rain. Boiling rain and ice together, sifting the debris of the others showers off of the deck. Boy coughed and wretched under the downpour, but he didn't throw up, and he didn't cry and he didn't scream. And he stayed standing, even when his knees ached and his shoulders bruised. There had to be something said for that.

At some point, he crawled under the upper deck to his usual sleeping place, where foul water swilled around him and things scuttled in the gloom. But he was too bone-weary to care, and half-fell asleep to a discordant symphony of thunder and laughter. Hours later, when Boy felt he could move again, he shifted stiffly back into open space, only to be greeted by lightly falling snow. Each flake would hiss ad sizzle on the deck as it fell, as though the wood was superheated. _No_, Boy thought, swaying as he stared around at the fluttering crystals. _Superheated wood _burns_. We're not burning_.

Curry was still laughing, still standing, waving his broad-brimmed hat at the hurricane, inviting further abuse.

Boy crept swiftly back into his refuge, and there he made a decision, which he vowed to keep for all of time.

It was: _From now on, whenever a storm overtakes me, I shall simply sleep all the way through it and not bother with worrying._

It was, he thought, rather a good resolution.

He awoke three more times, and there may have been night and there may have been day. But mostly there was just storm, and no way of telling. When he awoke for a fourth time, things seemed calmer, which he might have taken as a good sign if he wasn't so suspicious of the Grand Line's treacherous weather shifts.

But the change seemed indeed to be for the better, as clouds thinned and lightning lessened. Boy tried once or twice to speak to his mentor, but Curry was still laughing, and the only change when Boy raised his voice was that the laughter cracked slightly, never ceasing. Boy had thought himself crazy before, hunting rabbits for the old man's whims, but this was something different, he thought. Jamba Curry was totally insane.

Now…how to deal with it?  
He pondered this question for a day, and rejoiced tiredly when he realized that he could, in fact, tell that it _was _day. And near the evening, he came to a conclusion; he had to somehow find an island. Soon. And on that island, there had to be people. There _had _to be people, because those people would in turn _have _to have a doctor. It had to be that way.

The sky was pale lavender, shot over with ashen clouds. It was by far the most beautiful sight that his eyes had touched on for a very long time, and Boy felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him like a blanket, even blocking out Curry's insane laughter. Finally, there was a moment for rest and peace…

This alteration in atmosphere coincided almost perfectly with a complete stillness in the sea around the boat. There were no waves, no ripples save for the soft wake trailing behind the craft. Boy closed his eyes, exhaling with somnolent satisfaction.

_Water—_

_SOUND—_

_And—_

_Then—_

_The—_

_World—_

-was full of monsters. Boy glanced at the Log Pose. It wasn't on his wrist anymore; Curry had it. He remembered now. What had he said, what had he said? He knew this one.

"Calm Belt," Boy murmured, and then ran at Curry. He had only gone two steps before the center of the deck buckled, splintered, and then shattered into uncountable shards. A large, baleful yellow eye stared at Boy from the yawning gap, and on the other side of it his teacher kept laughing. Boy didn't like Curry very much; he'd been known to contemplate the existence of hate from time to time, in fact. But he would _not _be responsible for the geezer's death. It was just too much of a bother to think about that for the rest of his life.

Idealistic, yes. Intelligent, no. He tried anyway. Three steps back, then forward and _jump_—which—splinters—in his feet—but he was on the other side, where Curry was still upright despite the heaving landscape of marine behemoths beneath them, and Boy managed to get both hands on the back of his teacher's collar. As the boat began to fall apart under their feet, he loosened half of his grip to wrap one arm around a timber of the deck and closed his eyes tightly as the seething seawater rushed up towards him…

Life truly was not reasonable. Boy swallowed large amounts of sea water just minding his own business, and it wasn't as though the brutes could make a meal out of him or Curry anyway, but they continued to disturb the water all around the makeshift flotation device for a long while, until appearing to lose interest. Boy waited until all of them had vanished and then, eyes still closed, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't awake them again, kicked as hard as he could in a direction that, he hoped, would get him _out of this place_. It didn't matter whether it was on the Grand Line or in one of the four Blues. It just had to be an island.

And, since Curry was still laughing, it had to have people on it.

Apparently, sea monsters were not interested in two tiny humans floating on their own. This was both a boon and a vexation for Boy, who could not tell for the life of him whether he was inside the Calm Belt or out of it. He didn't know what the difference was between the Calm Belt and the rest of the Blues, except that one was full of monsters and the other, for the most part, was not.

He tried not to think about fathoms of ocean below him, dark and full of unnamable things. He tried very, _very _hard not to think about what would happen if they didn't come across land very soon.

He was really beginning to worry about Curry, who hadn't stopped laughing since they'd entered the storm and probably wasn't going to stop soon.

Sun. Water. Horizon. Laughter. Boy was starting to get really hungry. There were probably many fish in this ocean, but they were all…somewhere else, apparently. He tried to sleep and woke up when he nearly slipped into the water.

Sun. Horizon. Laughter.

The salt water can't be _so _bad for drinking.

Sun. Laughter.

There has to be an island here somewhere.

Laughter.

Food?  
-

Laughter.

_Just let go._

_No._

Sun. Horizon. Laughter.

_Shore_.

Boy heard a heartbeat nearby. Saw the rabbit through the black flecks spilling over his range of vision. Drew his knife with a clumsy pull and killed it with a snake's swiftness.

He didn't bother to make a fire.

* * *

**Dark, I know. So slay me. **

**...Or don't. Slaying doesn't seem optimal at this time. I still have to know what my Christmas presents are. And make one! I need to make one! **

**...**

**...Tell you what. I'm going crazier than Mr. Curry here, so I'm just going to reply to your fabulous reviews now. How's that sound?**

**Ilex Crataegus: Aha, so "This" means something good! I've never encountered such a thing before, but I'm learning new things every day, you know... Anyway, _huzzah_, we got to see him in the manga (and you drew me fanart. I love you. But in a platonic, non-creepy way). I'll do my best to keep it as canon as humanly possible-as evidenced by the sudden turn of events..._gods_, it's so obvious. I shouldn't have said anything, but backspacing is too much effort. **

**Senko-chan: I 'm glad you think so...I've been getting almost as impatient as Boy is for him to be the world's greatest. All this hard work is _so boring_. Not that I'm complaining, or something. And yeah, Oda had _better _give us a backstory to replaced what I've scraped up here. And Crocodile had _better _not be female!**

_***non sequitur* *non sequitur***_

**The Animaniac Dude: Guffaw indeed. Now I have to see if I can slip some more TVTropes references in there, just for the heck of it...**

**AttilaTheBunny: Well, I like your new name, anyway. It's much easier to type, if you'll pardon my saying so. Indeed, school sucks. I should be labeling sources for my English paper right now. No, actually, I should be in bed right now. But I'm extremely happy that you thought the last chapter was cool, and here's hoping this one make up for the wait. My regards, dude! :)**

**ImmortalMelody: Nice to see you again! Yes, Zoro's pathetic, puny little adventures are no match for the epic battle of Boy and the rabbits. I mean, who wants to read about some fight with a random giraffe guy if you could just look at Part V?**

**...Ah, yes. The sarcasm. It happens late at night. Don't mind me. Thank you very much!**

**

* * *

**

**I did NaNoWriMo this year. Thus the very late chatper. My novel is not done yet, but I worked on this instead of using my December time for finishing it and my paper on _Rashomon_. If you're a fan, I hope you're happy, and if you only read this because it disgusts you, I hope you're devastatingly disappointed that there's a new chapter.**

**Good.**

**Night.**


	6. Part VI: Self

**Ugh. I didn't mean for this little "random island" segment to go on this long. But here it is. It'll be continued in the next chapter, but I'm hoping it won't take up all of Part VII. Unless we're due a filler humor chapter. And who wants one of those? I mean, look at how ridiculously crappy the last one is. _(EDIT: That chapter has been deleted...it had no place in the storyline and it was confusing people.)_  
**

**But anyway. This update was faster than usual, wasn't it?**

**Or was it?**

**I can't remember. I'm going to feel so _dead _tomorrow. Tired.**

**

* * *

**Part VI: Self

_"Life is just one damned thing after another." -Elbert Hubbard (1856 - 1915)_

The raw rabbit provided moisture as well as nutrients, but Curry wouldn't eat it (even unconscious), and Boy was beginning to think that drinking sea water had been a mistake. Possibly. His vision had begun to become tinted by various pulsing colors in succession, and though he didn't feel he could move an inch from where he lay, he knew that lying in the sun for hours on end would bake him dryer than a fish.

It was evening, though. He could afford to rest now, wait until the darkness gave him relief enough to move from where he lay. Cloudy blue night crept down over the flaming horizon, far too slowly for Boy's tastes.

He tried, he honestly did his best to keep himself alert, but every inch of him was searing by now, whether with fever or because he was going as mad as his teacher. The closest option for relief was unconsciousness.  
There was darkness, empty and painless.

Then he woke up. For a length of time that he could never have measured, he lay very still, listening to his own heartbeat. There were centers where the steady tempo was stronger; just under his jaw…in his joints…in his fingertips…

He tried moving. His skin was coated by a white crust of salt, crystallized from the ocean. It stung his eyes, his eyelashes clinging together as he rolled over. That action in itself took enormous effort, and his hair, now longer than it had ever been, swung into his eyes. The sand was an inch from his nose, heat boiling up from it into his face. He licked his lips, tasting the salt's sharp tang, and screwed his eyes shut until the darkness behind his eyelids swirled murkily. Then he told his body to stand up.

It didn't work.

He hadn't suspected it would, but the idea of actually physically using his muscles grated on him. He attempted it anyway, and found that the process went rather smoothly, albeit with large amounts of swaying and light-headedness. He tried taking a step, and it appeared to work. Then his stomach gurgled, the world turned itself end over end, and Boy vomited large amounts of half-digested raw meat onto the shore. He found later that he couldn't force himself to properly recall this event in detail, and was glad of it.

Alright. Priorities. People, doctor, food. No, that wasn't right. Food, people, doctor. If you don't have food, there is no guarantee you'll make it to the people.

Boy crouched next to his prone teacher, raised his eyebrows skeptically, and then gripped the back of the old man's coat, wrenching him upright…

…only to fall to his knees once more as gravity tugged Curry's body inexorably back to earth.

Fine, then. He would just have to leave the man here and come back as soon as he found people. Boy tested his strength with a reasonable jog, found that he body held up well under the stress, and was just beginning to wonder whether there were even humans on this island when he came around a screen of trees and saw the village.

A _village_.

Not one hundred yards from where he'd lain for a day and a half, despairing. And there it was, _right there_. Boy swore very softly several times, just because the world had a cruel sense of humor, and started to run towards the little cluster of houses. Then he paused, frowned, and turned around and stumbled back towards Curry. Saber, saber… He didn't know anything about this place. He needed a weapon, just in case.

Curry volunteered no complaint as Boy relieved him of his sword, which Boy took as generous assent. Gripping the leather scabbard in one hand, he made his way through the trees, beyond which a faint sound of voices told him business was progressing as usual within the town. It was strange, of course, that a trading town wouldn't have a port nearby. By all rights, there should have been a thriving line of docks along the coast where he and Curry had washed up.

He could ask later. Boy quickened his pace a little, managing _not _to trip twice, and noticed that he had lost both shoes at some point, though he couldn't have said when.  
His breath wasn't getting short, but his body had endured enough fatigue for a week and Boy couldn't help thinking that it was only a matter of time before it collapsed. How displeasing. But he was close now, and there was the first building, growing in his line of sight, and the people beyond it. Looked like a market, he thought, and allowed himself an exhausted grin. That meant food. All he had to do now—

-_bullet_.

He _heard _it, _felt _air move against lead, and, lacking the willpower to dodge, he just let himself fall over.

Instant uproar, though whether they were worried over him or just shocked by the sudden gunshot, he couldn't tell. They were closer now, all around him, above and beside. Asking him questions. Boy grunted into the dust, inhaled to speak, and then convulsed in a fit of coughs and sneezes. Hands shook his shoulder. Someone seized his shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. Brief pressure said they were checking his heartbeat.

_"Alive," _said a voice, professional and male. _"Emaciated…"_

"Old man," Boy gasped, trying to breathe air and finding dirt instead. "Get old man—on—beach—"

At this point, something made heavy and very painful contact with his temple, and he sank into unconsciousness.

He thought, _I wish this would stop happening…_

When he woke up, he was very hungry. In fact, he was extremely hungry. He was lying on something soft, which was good, because it meant he probably wasn't dead. And even if he was, he refused to be.

The air smelled like plants. Spices. Herbs. Whatever. And it smelled clean. The air was moving, so a door or window was open somewhere. It had to be from a door or window because he couldn't hear the ambient noise that came with being outside. So, taking a shrewd guess, he was in…a doctor's house.

That was good.

The pallet was extremely comfortable, and the idea of moving from it was a far-off, uneasy thought. But he _was _very hungry, and there was sure to be something to eat somewhere around here. If the doctor knew anything about his business, he would have guessed from the appearance of his two new patients that they'd been without food for longer than was secure for the human body.

Boy opened his eyes. A headache grumbled behind his left temple, but it didn't seem serious, so he sat up and blinked until his surroundings sharpened into focus.

A clean room, with a wide doorway to his right and windows before him and to his left. Only a broad cloth curtain covered half of the space beyond the entrance.

Boy stood, grimacing at the hunger pangs twisting his hollow stomach, and staggered past the curtain, frowning at the room beyond.

There was a low table in the very center, and bunches of drying leaves were suspended from the ceiling, rustling gently in a faint breeze from another open door on his right. Around him, the building was silent, empty as his stomach. The herbs didn't look edible and didn't smell especially tasteful either. Boy scowled at them and began to move towards the door, but a flicker of movement snagged the corner of his eyes. Another person, at the end of an unlit hall to his right—Boy reached for the saber's hilt and found that it wasn't there. He studied the figure for a moment, trying to make out details.

It was a boy, taller than him, staring at him silently from a sunlit room much like the one he stood in now. Boy could see long, thin arms, rangy with muscle, and filthy clothes that hung, sack-like, from angular shoulders. Why was a kid like this here? He gave off an aura of contempt simply by standing there…

Boy took a step forward. So did the other boy. Boy snapped back, ready for confrontation, but the other did the same. They stared at each other for another tense moment, and Boy thought then that the young man at the end of the hall looked…vaguely…familiar.

…

_There is no…no way…_

He staggered towards the mirror, breath caught in his throat, staring into his own angled amber eyes. Apart from those…well, he could have been someone else.

Shocks of black, tangled hair stuck out all over his head, and the nape of his neck was covered by mats of it. Stubble shaded his jaw, and shadows made his own astonished eyes alien and hostile in his slight delirium. There was a nasty, storm-cloud purple bruise blooming over his forehead.

He swore very softly, making a number of cracks in his lips split open painfully.

"Ah," said a voice, and Boy spun around immediately, his hand moving this time to the knife at his throat.

A small, scruffy, middle-aged man stared back at him, totally unfazed. "You would like to clean yourself up, yes? I'm the doctor of this town. You seem well enough to walk, so I'll take you to the woman whose job it is to cut hair. Unless you would rather do that yourself." He nodded to the knife, still clasped protectively by one thin, pale hand.

"No," Boy muttered, taking another disbelieving glance at his reflection. "No, thank you. I would like to look…mildly respectable, at least."

"Then we'll leave right now," said the doctor, and turned, beckoning with one long-fingered hand. "Follow me, hmm…" he gave Boy a fleeting look, raising his eyebrows. "Your name is?"

"Boy," he mumbled, putting all of his willpower into not averting his eyes.

The man was still staring expectantly, vague green eyes unblinking. Perhaps being a doctor made you a little bit crazy. Why did half the people he met have to be crazy? Where _was _this place, anyway?

"My name," he said, very clearly, "is Boy. The old man named me. Blame him."

"Ah, the other one. I suppose you would like to know where—"

"No," said Boy. "What sea is this?"

"North Blue," the Doctor replied, and trotted towards the door again. "Come on, then, Boy. I'll tell you exactly where we are on the way there."

At least he talked like a normal person. Boy followed.

The answers he received were thus: This land was known as Belt Island, after its nearness to the Calm Belt, and it was much milder in temperature than most of the islands in the North Blue. The doctor's name was Finch, but the town was as nameless as it had been on the day of its founding.

He would have liked to avoid attention in the streets, but that was easier thought than done. He was, after all, rather conspicuous, and in a small town like this, there were very few uninhabited streets. Boy opted for appearing as dignified as possible and not looking to either side. He would deal with reputation later. Even so, it was difficult not to notice the murmurs of the crowd and the way it shifted subtly to let him pass through.

Well. He was used to that. Curious, though, how much he rankled at it now.

A stocky woman with vibrant, peach-hued hair and a wickedly sharp pair of scissors was waiting for them outside a small, dark building. Perhaps business was slow today-she should have been inside, working.

She assessed Boy with one cursory glance, said, _"Tch_," and ushered him and Finch inside. It was cool and shadowy, unlit save by a single candle in the corner. Boy was shoved unceremoniously into a rather uncomfortable wooden chair. The angles of his bony, unfed body grated awkwardly against the rough planes, but that was the least of his worries…

"Sit still," said the woman, and Boy sat very still indeed. In fact, he tried, to the best of his abilities, not to breathe. Blades flickered and darted inches from his ears, sharp fingernails digging carelessly into his scalp as she tugged at chunks of hair. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and thought about the scissors. They had blades, and she was certainly _using _them like weaponry…

He couldn't hear their breath, as he might from a rabbit or a human. It had been there before, once or twice, steel speaking to him, but… A rare experience, maybe. Yes, there had been the bread knife long, long ago, and after that the unfinished steel hanging from the walls of Curry's forge (now, unfortunately, somewhere on the floor of the Calm Belt). Perhaps it was a thing that had only belonged to his child self.

The more Boy contemplated this loss, the more of a loss it seemed. The talent had to be useful in some way, though he couldn't have said precisely how.

There _was_ something alive about these scissors, though…

Boy sighed wearily and opened his eyes. _Does swordsmanship induce madness? "The scissors are alive."_ Something_ is dreadfully wrong with my mentality._

"Sit _still_," repeated the commanding voice behind him as a razor-sharp point nicked his ear. Boy obeyed.

He could feel his head growing subtly lighter as she worked. Shreds of dark, unkempt hair showered down around him, but there was no mirror here. By the time the peach-haired woman's assistant had taken over with a cut-throat razor, Boy had decided it was best to relax and rest a little. Hopefully the young man knew what he was doing. Hopefully the tool's name wouldn't prove to be accurate.

It was Finch who shook him awake when the job was finished. Boy yawned, stretched stiffly, and was just about to let his muscles go slack again when he was seized by his shirt collar and literally _thrown _out of the wooden chair. Boy whipped around to glare at the lady, but she was still holding the scissors, and they were longer than the knife around his neck. He let it go. Just this once.

Standing outside the door, in the shade of the awning, Boy ran his hands cautiously over his face and head, trying to form a mental image of his new appearance.

His chin was smooth again, though the assistant had left neat squares of hair in front of his ears, stopping just above his jaw line. Boy thought the styling must look at least a little bit strange, but the idea of returning to the little shop wasn't a pleasant one. Therefore, he instead turned his attention to his hair. It was _much _shorter, and he realized with a sense of grudging gratitude towards the haircutter that there was no longer any in his eyes. Something had been done to smooth it all back to the nape of his neck, where it curled damply upwards. Boy ran his hands over the silky crown of his head, trying to remember the last time his hair had really been clean.

He couldn't.

Now, if he could just get a bath and some new clothes, he might actually look even a little bit like a swordsman in training.

He allowed himself glimpses of the town now. A little more freedom, he thought, now that he didn't look like a wild man. Whenever his eyes met a pedestrian's gaze, they would turn away, looking a little bit guilty.

_Fine, then, _he thought, grimacing faintly. _Stare at me as much as you like. I don't mind. _He even attempted a cocky grin, which wasn't an expression that came easily to his face. There was a general, street-wide shift away from him, and Finch spared him a concerned glance. Boy stopped smiling, wondering how frightening the expression could really _be_. It was true that his face was…well, _suited_ to scaring people, but he was also only a teenager.

He would have to test it in the mirror later.

After a while, the streets moving by began to seem distinctly monotonous, and Boy turned his gaze upwards for a little introspection. After all, he reasoned, the sky couldn't possibly be more boring than his surroundings, and Finch seemed to have no inclination to start a conversation.

He was alive. Thinking back, that was a pleasant surprise. Curry had said at some point that the fourth greatest cause of death in the world was drowning, and that was no wonder, from what Boy had seen of it. _Everything _was sea. The fact that they'd managed to be anywhere _near _an island was against huge odds. Was he just immensely lucky, or had the universe somehow recognized his will to live?

…_Unless _he was actually had very _bad _luck and these people were actually…cannibals, or something, and any minute now, Finch was going to attack him. Boy smiled a little again; on the Grand Line, it would have been plausible, but here… Well, he would need some honest proof before leaping to conclusions. Proof, such as…

…the fact that that bullet had barely missed his head. And someone else had knocked him unconscious.

"Finch," he said, as calmly as possible, "when I arrived here, who attempted to shoot me?"

The doctor frowned, raising his eyebrows. "Shoot you?"

"Yes," said Boy, staring as intensely as only he could at Finch, who was shaking his head slowly.

"I think you were a little bit too delirious to—"

"_No_," Boy interjected, a little vexed now. "There was definitely a bullet. It was aimed right at my head, but I avoided it. Who shot it?"

"You fell over," Finch told him.

"I know that! I couldn't dodge any other way. Now, _if you would_, who on this island would have any reason to try to kill me?"

They had returned to the doctor's house now, standing on either side of the wide doorway. Boy folded his arms slowly, waiting for an answer, but Finch seemed unbothered by this gesture, and appeared to be in deep thought. After a moment, he appeared to come to a conclusion.

"Well, Boy, I arrived there late. I gave my professional opinion, told them to carry you here as soon as possible, and found that someone had struck your head with enough force to knock you out. Some of our young men can be rather rowdy. It's not really very exciting here, and they _are _easily bored. But before you hunt them down, I would like to ask you something."

"And that is…?" Boy asked warily, his right hand creeping towards the knife around his neck.

"Would you like some food?"  
-

Finch told him repeatedly to _eat more slowly_, and Boy was, indeed, beginning to feel nauseous. But…

Well, it was _food_. And it _wasn't _raw rabbit, for which he was extremely grateful. It was cooked fish that wasn't covered in sand, and actually seemed to have been prepared with care, like a _real _meal. Boy's pride would not allow him to weep tears of happiness, but at times he felt dangerously close to it. And it contained no trace of turtle meat whatsoever, which took Finch up a few places in Boy's eyes.

"So," said Boy, having cleaned two plates and grudgingly wary taking another, "where _is _Curry? If he's not here, that is."

"The man you left on the beach? He ate breakfast here and told me he was going to explore the territory. I'm not sure when he'll be back."

Boy sighed, exasperated. "That sounds like him. If he does show up again and I'm not around, please detain him until I return, won't you?"

Finch nodded, wordless now that he was consuming his own meal. Boy watched him for a moment, wondering whether the doctor was telling him the whole truth. But really…what was the point in worrying? If there was any danger to staying here, he would best it as it came. And he needed rest.

But before that…

Boy looked around the room, found the mirror that he had seen earlier, and walked gingerly up to it, squinting at his own reflection.

He still looked half-dead, but he was definitely more respectable in appearance. The hair that the barber's assistant had left by his ears actually didn't look half-bad now that he could examine the effect. Almost…sophisticated. Very nice. And the hair… His hair had begun to reassert its previous shape, a black crest of unruly spikes standing up along the back of his head. Boy wondered whether it would stay slicked back if he kept it that way long enough.

He had just started to make his way towards the room that he had woken up in when a thought struck him suddenly and he padded back into the kitchen, where Finch was still patiently whittling away the amount of food on the table.

"Finch."

"Hm?"

Boy hesitated for a moment, wondering how the question might be taken. "…Do any swordsmen live on Belt Island?"

"Not so far as I know."

"Ah."

There seemed to be nothing more to say. Boy took his leave to settle down on the extremely comfortable pallet, where he was asleep within a minute.

He awoke abruptly, softly shocked by the clean contrast between sleep and consciousness. His brain had seemed to switch from the fuzzy comfort of sleep directly to fresh alertness. His body, on the other hand, was still weary and his breathing was still deep and slow. Better to just lie still for the moment, he thought. And he opened his eyes.

The room had been swallowed by night's shadows, save for a slice of moonlight on the floor, just feet from his hand. Boy stared at the crisp, silvery pool (having nothing else to stare at), and considered at that moment just how much he wanted a real name. _Boy _was not a real name. He introduced himself as such, but it was temporary.

Curry had said something about this at one point. Boy tried to remember the stipulation exactly, but the best he could retrieve from his usually precise memory was something about a "genuine victory".

Wasn't that the old man in a nutshell! _A genuine victory. _He'd fought morons with knives, a psychotic geezer, a bloodthirsty bounty hunter, and the Grand Line's madness. The rabbits didn't count, of course. In any case, Boy felt these battles deserved a little recognition at least.

_Ah, _said an annoyingly perceptive voice in the back of his head, _but how many of those conflicts can you actually claim to have won? _

Well, the first one, for one thing.

_As I recall, you were on the ground with a broken nose and a hole through your hand._

That's beside the point. Anyway, that sea never drove me insane, so it's a victory over the Grand Line.

_And you're entirely certain of this?_

Just…just _shut up, _alright?

He shut up.

_Grief_, he'd just lost an argument with himself! He _was _crazy! Disgruntled, Boy shoved the thought to the back of his mind. Time to think about something else.

Was Curry expecting to _give _him a new name?

Perish the thought. "Boy" was dislikable enough; he had no wish to be dubbed something even more ridiculous. He was going to name himself. And he'd make it something that would catch the eye of anyone walking past his bounty poster. Yes…

Boy turned on the pallet, so that he was lying on his left side. His right arm stretched with dreamlike slowness towards the moonlight, until his hand rested, palm-down, in the pale illumination. Long, bony hand, near-white without daylight to warm its tone. Calluses all down the fingers, and tiny scratches and scrapes covering his arm, almost invisible. Not the same hand he'd begun this journey with. More muscle there. Wiry, tough stuff. His had never been a body intended for bulkiness. Perhaps, though, for greatness. No, perhaps was to uncertain a word.

He would name himself. That was the last thought before he dropped into sleep once more.

At some point, when it was light again, Boy found himself staggering down into the dining room, where he Curry seated, legs crossed neatly, at the table. He was eating what appeared to be a crab, while Finch observed with mild interest. The smith didn't seem to notice Boy as he settled and began dishing out a meal for himself, nor did he raise his head when Boy spoke for the first time.

The words seemed very loud in the stillness of the room.

"So. Where have you been?"

Silence reclaimed the emptiness following the question, during which time Boy waited with unusual patience for a reply. When it seemed that none would be forthcoming, he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Curry." A flick of one gray eye rewarded him. "Where were you?"

The old man shot him a swift, deprecating smile. "I highly doubt that such a thing concerns you, boy. It is my own business, after all."  
Boy, who was awake enough to catch the absence of the capital letter in "boy", paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth. "…Excuse me?"

"I daresay your ears are functioning. If not, allow me to repeat myself—"

"Old man, _I _daresay I've a right to know where my senile teacher has wandered off to for a day and a night."

"Then by all means, get thee hence and locate him. I have no patience for a prenatal brat's wordplay."

Silence again, while Boy assessed the situation. Curry was not smiling. He tended to smile—quite broadly, in fact—when he acted for his own amusement. This was worrying.

"Curry," he said, "I do not find this at all humorous."

"Neither do I find it thus, if you must know," the old man replied irately around a mouthful of crab flesh. "Now, go on your way."

"I'm your…student," said Boy, pausing a little before the last word because "student" implied subordination, which he disliked.

"No, you most emphatically are not. In point of fact, I have never laid eyes upon your visage before this day."

"…Oh," said Boy, and glanced at Finch. "Is there a medical term for this?"

"If you're telling the truth and he really is your teacher, I'd call it amnesia. Usually caused by severe physical or mental trauma, most commonly head damage."

"Is there a cure?" Boy asked, eyeing Curry's increasingly peeved expression.

"Not medicinally, no. Depending on what he remembers, it's possible that his memory could return very shortly. Unless you have any kind of money on you, I'll have to leave his recovery up to both of you. However, there _are _number of simple trials that I'd suggest."

"Go on, then."

Test number one: check exactly how much the patient knows about his or herself.

"Jamba Curry, smith. I first stepped onto this mortal coil in South Blue. The number of years ago that this occurred is no business of yours."

"How many times have you visited the Grand Line?"

"Once. Though I would be more than willing to test its waters once more."

Test number two: ask the patient to attempt several simple math problems, increasing the difficulty by increments.

Boy glanced at Curry. "I don't think we need to do that."

"Indubitably," said Curry. He was washing his breakfast down with a generous helping of whiskey, which confounded Boy, as the bottle appeared to have materialized from the ether.

Test number three: have the patient sign his name.

"But that's _useless_," Boy snapped. "He clearly already remembers that much! What's the point of it, anyway?"

Finch regarded him levelly. "Muscle memory. Generally in more severe cases, the hand remembers the patient's name better than the patient himself. If they can write, that is."

Boy opened his mouth to scoff at this; after all, as he'd said, writing his name would hardly recall Curry's memory. Then an alternative occurred to him, and, absentmindedly, he tugged at the cord around his neck, pulling it over his head. The knife appeared to have rusted a little with the salt water, and needed sharpening. He would have to see to it before setting about his business.

One thing at a time.

Finch lent him a whetstone that was generally reserved for the doctor's scalpels, such as he had. Boy polished and grated and scraped at the blade until it seemed in good enough shape to cut properly, and then exited the house as inconspicuously as possible.

The village was surrounded by forest, which suited his needs perfectly. Being no expert on trees, Boy resorted instead to fallen branches, since there seemed to be a surplus of them. Eventually, having found two that were approximately the same size and shape-albeit with an abundance of extra twigs-Boy unsheathed the knife and began his work in earnest.

It seemed to him that it should have been more difficult to cut through the tree limbs. The blade was small, and, while stronger than it appeared, wasn't suited to sawing. And he _wasn't _sawing at the wood-that was the odd thing. The edge simply bit straight through the branch, although it always seemed to stop working the moment Boy concentrated.

He decided eventually that making a blade cut whatever you wanted was like those times when a muscle started twitching in your foot; whenever you moved to take a look at the offensive area, it would stop moving. Therefore, he tried not to think about making the knife cut, and began to trim the excess off of each of the staves in turn.

When he had finished, he inspected his handiwork with a critical yellow eye, and judged it to be adequate.

Two wooden swords. By no means were they straight, balanced, or even really remotely sword-like. Neither had a cross guard, and he would probably have been better off purchasing real swords. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that anyone on this island actually sold bladed weapons (though _someone _certainly sold rifles, he thought dryly). He had no money, in any case.

Now only the matter of persuading Curry to fight him remained.

As it turned out, this was far easier than it sounded. The old man had settled himself against the house's western wall in the afternoon sun when Boy returned. His saber was nowhere in sight, and he appeared to be fast asleep. However, when Boy tossed one of the makeshift swords at his teacher, one knobbly hand shot into the air with a snake's swiftness to catch it.

One predatory gray eye opened a crack.

"And may I inquire," said Curry in tones of chilly politeness, "what has warranted this turn of events?"

"I was hoping I could show you what I've learned from you so far," said Boy, somewhat annoyed by Curry's fresh hostility towards him. If the old man was going to be that belligerent about it, then Boy might as well play a nasty little trick on him.

It began like this: Boy held the wooden sword as a beginner would and stood like an amateur.

And he could _see _it in Curry's face. _Ah, there is absolutely no possibility that this brat is my apprentice._

Time to have a little fun with that. Boy sensed the first blow coming (such a vague way to describe it, but it was hard to explain), but he didn't dodge or block. Instead, he yelped and flinched when the length of wood smacked into the side of his head. Granted, the yell was a little exaggerated, but he needed to play up the character for a while until it paid off.

Curry was grinning. Sadistic old bastard. Boy didn't need to fake the watering eyes; his ear was stinging, his skull throbbing.

He was still a little weak from his time at sea, which meant he'd have to look trulypathetic to surprise Curry in the end. Blows rained down on him, but Boy had grown used to Curry's all-out tactics-though there would, indeed, be bruises tomorrow, he was counting on them to buy him a victory tonight.

He waited until Curry had withdrawn for a moment, and then went on a dismally bad offensive, knowing what his apathy would eventually lead to. And, sure enough, after a number of similar exchanges, Curry proved him right. He really couldn't resist fighting a teaching battle. There was the old hole in his defense, the one he'd always included in offensive of his early-morning ambushes. And there was a _pattern_, too, one that Boy had never noticed during those attacks. He waited, spotted the beat, and danced to it.

Block—

_-one_

_ -two_

_ -three_

_ -four_

-lunge. The old man had spotted the change of style just after the third block, but by that time it was too late for him to do anything but dodge, and it wasn't enough. Boy took great relish in administering a blow that would almost certainly leave a mark of its own. _Thwack_, wood-on-skin, and it was his win.

Curry was doubled over, winded by the strike. Boy was looking forward to an expression of astonishment, but when his teacher straightened once more, he appeared only mildly surprised.

"How old are you, then…?"

Catching the question tacked on the end, Boy supplied, "Boy. You named me Boy. For the time being. And I'm probably fifteen. Maybe older."

"You seem to be distinctly lacking in height for such age," Curry commented. Then, his eyes narrowing slightly, he added, "You have some talent to compensate, I suppose. Let us begin anew, if you please. You may discover that victory is not so attainable."

Boy couldn't help but grin at this as he shifted his feet into a fighting stance. And this time, he stood like a swordsman.

The next day, Finch gave him money for clothes, which, he informed Boy, would be his last piece of charity. This sentiment, while not malicious, was quite firmly stated. Boy believed him.

The beri proved to be more than enough for a new shirt, pair of pants, and even real shoes, though they were cheap. Boy would have liked to be able to pay some of the loaned currency back to the doctor—after all, Finch had been more than patient with his tenants' presence—but by the end of the day, only a single coin remained. Boy felt it would be a feeble show of gratitude to return the lone gold piece, and therefore pocketed it for later use (though he couldn't say what it might buy).

Curry still insisted that he remembered nothing whatsoever about Boy, although by now there was no way of telling whether he was acting or simply telling the truth. Either way, Boy was certain that the old man would revert to his former self eventually. Memory loss wasn't the kind of thing that stayed with Curry, stubborn as he was.

He returned with his purchases folded neatly in a basket (also borrowed from Finch), and wasted no time in exchanging his baggy, grimy, and pervasively malodorous clothes for the fresh attire. If he could have, he would have burned his old shirt and pants, but there was no fireplace in the doctor's house, and Boy didn't know how to make a fire. He settled for burying them. His shoes, he knew, were somewhere on the ocean floor. They would not be missed.

All that was left now was to bathe. He had only one real option, and it wasn't an appealing one, but Boy could not help thinking that it was somehow a very important part of looking respectable. Before leaving for the sea, he inspected himself in the mirror.

His hair was still slicked back, though a little messier than before, and the bruises on his face had begun to turn a lovely shade of purple. The rest of the marks were mostly covered by the first long-sleeved shirt he had worn in his life. He was still getting used to the feel of it. Boy had wanted the white one next to his final choice, but white silk was too expensive and, anyway, blood didn't show as much on black. The pants were nothing special, but at least they covered his ankles and weren't blotchy with stains. The shoes were brown, with no laces. He had chosen them for just this reason; lacing shoes was an alien concept to him.

As Curry would have said, his appearance was not entirely monstrous. Boy counted this as a victory.

Now. Time for a bath.

He was loathe to leave the fresh, clean clothes in the sand, but they were going to become dirty at some point anyway, so he might as well be accustomed to it. In any case, after he had entered the water, the state of his clothes became the last thing on his mind.

It was surprisingly cold. _Deep breaths, don't think about the temperature. Deep breaths… _

Once he was submersed up to his chest, the numbness made going deeper a little bit easier. When his toes began to lift an inch from the sand every time a wave passed, he decided that he had gone far enough.

Now…how did one wash oneself in the sea? As a child, Boy had always done odd jobs for a bath in a tin tub, but even then, he'd always been supplied with a sponge, at least. Clearly, it did not pay to enter into such a thing unprepared. The only alternative, he concluded, was to float in the salt water until he felt mildly cleaner, presumably before his entire body was numb.

There was no real way to track how much time he spent in the sea, and in the end it was neither the spreading lack of feeling nor an innate sense of cleanness that brought him out.

It was a heartbeat.

Not even that, truthfully. But Boy had felt enough stares on the back of his neck to recognize the feeling that accompanied it. Feeling more annoyed than embarrassed, he waited for his feet to touch back down again and turned to glare at whoever was watching him.

Unfortunately, what would have been a rather imposing deathly look was choked midway when he saw the face.

He turned white. And then red. And then the lower half of his face vanished beneath the water as he tried to think of something to do.

Nothing came to mind.

Boy had never had much experience with girls, and hadn't ever wanted to. Where he came from, they had either been terrified of him or threatened violence. They were unpredictable and frightening creatures. And so while Boy, as a teenaged...well, boy, had to admit that they held a certain intrigue, he had also spent most of his short life doing his best to avoid the fairer sex.

He had never counted on it coming to find _him_.

She was exceptionally attractive.

This did not comfort him.

She stood there for what seemed to be an inordinately long time, and with every moment she didn't move, Boy felt more and more indecent. Several times he thought about actually asking her to leave, but each time the words died in his throat and he just sank further into the water, trying not to make eye contact. In the end, he resorted to just telling her mentally to _GO AWAY_.

And just when he thought his cause was lost and he would simply be forced to freeze to death or drown, she turned around abruptly and…walked away.

_Shocking_, thought Boy, a little deliriously. _I must be more powerful than I… _

He could _see_. He could see _far_. A man, a man standing on a hill under the trees, face shadowed over.

With a gun.

_Damn._

Boy had always had a vague idea that swearing was an unintelligent way of expressing one's emotions, but in this situation…

…he repeated the word over and over, very fast, as he struggled with frozen legs towards the beach. First priority: avoid being shot. Second priority: PANTS. Possibly the other way around.

The first shot came when he was knee-deep in frigid water. By then, feeling had begun to return to his body, and his skin felt on fire as wind bit into it. Pants, he needed—_another bullet hummed past his shoulder as—_he lunged over the sand, snatched at the pile of cloth, and kept running with the article of clothing hanging from one hand. One leg into, and sand powdered his heels as another shot pounded into the beach. Both legs, and he made a break towards the marksman, skipping every other step as he attempted to haul the pants up over his bare feet.

_Into the trees get into the trees—_

Then he had cover, but he was also _so much _closer to his attacker, and, _surprise_, he had no weapon. He could see metal gleaming over the rumpled black splash of his shirt. Inaccessible.

Boy swore again.

Fine, alright. He _could _just wait here to be shot, but he wasn't particularly fond of that option, so he decided, on impulse, to take an alternate and infinitely less certain route.

Out from behind the tree—one looks says _he's reloading—lucky! RUN! _And the man showed no signs of following as Boy, but soon there would be bullets, so he _ran_.

If shots were fired, he couldn't hear them—not the breath rasping through his teeth, not over the heartbeat heavy in his throat. Branches whipped past his bare arms and chest, and the air seemed colder by the second, but he was closer now, and closer, and there was no one behind him…

Finch was sitting with his back against the frame of his front door when Boy staggered, panting, up to the house. The doctor gave him a look of mild surprise, and then returned to his previous activity; cloud-watching. Boy, incensed that his arrival received no more notice than this but too relieved at his own survival to care, collapsed against the wall and slid to the ground.  
_"Finch."_

"Hm?"

_"What…aren't you…telling me…?"_

"What makes you think I'm keeping something from you?"

_"…just…tried…to kill…me."_

"What, again?"

Boy let his head loll to one side so that he could give Finch his best disbelieving glare. The scruffy man sighed and finally took his eyes off of the sky, grimacing at the ground.

"Usually, I'd tell someone to stop being foolish. It would be less dangerous that way. But…" The doctor gave Boy another glance, a little less cursorily this time. "…I'd say you've already jumped into the dangerous part."

"You might…say that," Boy interjected dryly. He hauled in a final gulp of air, and then let his lungs relax. "Very well, then. Tell me the horrendous truth."

Finch smiled. "Fine. This island is entirely inhabited by pirates."

Boy stared.

"Ah, well…I'm corrected. _Former_ pirates."

Boy raised his eyebrows. Finch returned the gesture. There was silence. Then Boy, still absorbing the concept, hazarded a guess at an explanation.

"Because…you're so close to the Calm Belt?"

"Yes."  
"But that's ridiculous—so many pirates ending up here, and leaving that life behind for a place like this? It's senseless."

"I'm corrected again. Prates, marines, merchants, and others. Forgive me—I'm biased by my former profession."

Boy stared.

Boy stared some more.

"…You were…?"

"A pirate doctor." Finch returned to watching the sky, supremely unconcerned.

"That," said Boy, "explains more than it does not. Do you know the man with the gun?"

Finch shrugged. "I know _of _him. He turned up about a month ago and didn't like our little society, so now he lives in the forest. I think he still has about four…no, five remaining crew members. Not nice people." He frowned slightly. "Perhaps you should leave soon, hm?"  
Boy considered this for a long moment, and eventually came to a solid decision. "No. Not just yet."

"Why's that?"

"I have a couple of things I would like to do first."

It was later. Boy wasn't fond of this time of day; an hour or so wherein it was neither day nor night. He just wished it would make up its mind.

But if he concentrated, everything sharpened enough that he could find his way adequately—though it made his eyes ache to focus properly in this light. The distance back to the beach seemed much longer than it had when he was running for his life, but he was thankful just to find the right area. His shirt lay, crumpled, where he had left it. Boy allowed himself a brief smile and lengthened his stride, eventually dropping into a crouch next to his discarded raiment.

_Shirt and shoes_… Both were there, but the object that he had been the most eager to regain had vanished.

"Curry."

"Boy."

"I have need of your sword. I'm going to borrow it."

The old man deigned to lift the broad brim of his hat, peering suspiciously at his student. "Is that so?"

"Yes. You've lent it to me before, trust me. I need it."

Curry proffered the requested item. "And why, pray tell, is that?"

"I," said Boy, "am going to reclaim my property."

And he left.

"Oh," said Curry to the silence after a moment. "Well, then. That was dramatic."

* * *

**I've assigned various instruments to the sundry swordsmen that turn up in this story. That way it's easier to keep track of what they'll do next. Boy has the violin; Curry, the Spanish guitar. Kuya was probably a drumset or something. Anyway. **

**Every time I think I've got this story under control, it takes another weird curve and I just have to go with it and hope for the best. The random girl will not be important to the plot. There will be no romance. Just making sure Boy remembers he's still an insecure teenager.**

**Oh! By the way. I thought of something. Mihawk almost certainly has something to do with the island that Kuma blasted Zoro to, but he can't have grown up there. Theoretically. My reasoning is thus: he was at Gol D. Roger's execution. I doubt he was born on the Grand Line, left it, and just went to Loguetown to check it out. So he was most likely born in one of the Blues. And he didn't have the Kokutou Yoru with him at the time of Roger's execution (check out Strong World 0, tell me if I'm right).**

**Anyway...now I'll answer your reviews. Y'all rock!**

**Sir Gar the Bold: Probably one of my favorite Shichibukai as well. :D I mean. He cut a TSUNAMI in half. Dude. Awesome. **

** But I digress.**

** Thanks very much for your encouragement! I'll try to get Boy a proper name as soon as possible, and I hope you keep reading!**

** And, yes, the penguins should totally do that. Why didn't I think of that?**

**Ilex Crataegus: I just had to put penguins in there somewhere, is all. But aren't you slightly disappointed by the island? It's very...normal. Which I suppose is to be expected, if we're not talking about the Grand Line. I promise everyone that I'll try to make them more interesting. And I'll include a Devil Fruit eventually.  
**

**AttilaTheBunny: Well, I hope you did well on your papers, then! I'd apologize, but I think you're reading this of your own free will...aren't you? Anyway, you're very welcome. **

** I was hiding under your porch...because I love you. May I stay.**

** And if you don't recognize that, go watch _UP!_ so that I don't feel like a total creeper. In fact, just go watch it even if you've already seen it. That movie heals the soul.**

**Dodef: Well, thank you! And here I was, thinking that maybe I should speed things up a little. One Piece is awesome, and I wish you good browsing (I recommend Y St. Ace, who wrote the best Smoker-fic I've ever read).**

**If you read, thank you for reading! I apologize for any mistakes, any of which I will hopefully edit tomorrow (if I survive). Peace, love, and a hard-boiled egg!**

**Good night. No, wait, sorry. Good morning.**


	7. Part VII: Blood

**I wanted so badly to make this chapter longer, but once I'd started writing the part after the end of this (Part 7), I realized it would be the perfect place to start the next chapter. So! Exactly 6000 words long, my minimum... Well, I guess, numbers aren't everything. In this chapter, Boy nearly dies again! He needs to get a proper name soon. ****Please, enjoy!**

**

* * *

**Part VII: Blood

_"Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth." **-Katherine Mansfield **(1888 - 1923)_

Finch reluctantly gave him a rough idea of where the rogue pirates had furnished their settlement. Boy was grateful for this, but any impulse to thank the doctor was overruled by the nagging accusation at the back of his brain. _He didn't tell me. He never said there were pirates and he certainly didn't mention that anyone would try to shoot me again. _

That was the second reason why Boy was trekking through unfamiliar territory in the dark; he wanted to know exactly what kind of grudge these men (_and women_, his brain supplied) had against a starving, half-drowned teenager. It wasn't as though he'd even done anything the first time the man had attacked him.

Another teenager might have at least allowed the enemy to speak their piece before taking a saber to them, but Boy had always preferred to ask questions later. He'd had cause to in the past, when he hadn't been tall or strong enough to fend off the older boys without surprise on his side.

Leaves crinkled under his feet, and all around the faint rustle of animal hearts told him he wasn't alone in the darkness. So far, however, nothing had revealed itself to him, and nothing seemed large enough to offer open hostility.

_Follow the small creek—upstream. Careful of sharp rocks, and stay in the darker shadows when you reach the big stones. They'll have watcher there. If you want a peaceful talk, you'll have to show them you're unarmed._

Boy had fastened the saber's scabbard to a piece of rope strung through his belt loops; he loosened the weapon slightly now, but not in preparation to discard it. If there were guards, they would have to be dealt with first.

Of course, if they had guns, this might be a little more challenging than it would be otherwise.

Whatever. He wanted that knife back.

He saw the subtle flickering of campfires even before he heard their voices. Of all the hideouts in a maze of boulders, this crew had chosen the most conspicuous. Either they didn't care whether they were seen, or they were very, very stupid.

_Heartbeat. No, two…three._

Boy gave himself a nod of acknowledgment, checking the air briefly for the taste of gunpowder. None was forthcoming, but he couldn't trust his sense of smell completely. This was no time to lower his guard.

He spotted a corner of darkness, hollowed beneath one of the behemoth rocks, and shifted towards it, keeping all his senses open for any sign of recognition from the watchmen above. _Count one, two, three, _and he was in the open again, trying to match the nuances of the ground as he shifted his feet. It was harder in proper shoes, with more between the rocks and the soles of his feet. Pity there was no time to take them off now.

Someone's gaze prickled over the back of his neck, but there was no catch in its movement; he hadn't been seen.

A hundred feet until he was beyond their line of eyesight. _How would it be, if I walked among them without catching the sentries' attention? _Maybe fifty feet now. _This could be easier than I'd thought. _Thirty. Twenty. Ten. Five. Firelight tightened his skin, but he knew better than to become overconfident before reaching his goal. This was hunting rabbits all over again; patience would serve him best. One hand crept unconsciously to his throat, two fingers pressing until he could feel his pulse.

Timing his steps by his heartbeat, Boy moved closer until only the shadow of an outcrop of stone concealed him. From beyond, a soft clamor of voices feathered the air. Discerning exactly how many there were or where the man from before was would be impossible without actually looking.

Boy weighed his chances of having his head blown off against how much he wanted his knife back. Would they expect him? Likely not, unless they were expecting him. Somehow, he thought this was unlikely. It was against all rationality to seek danger over such a petty vendetta, and whoever was chattering beyond his hiding place obviously trusted their sentries.

He began to draw Curry's sword, but halted before even an inch of steel was visible. For a long moment, he stared at the hilt, thin fingers resting loosely on the ancient leather. Then, abruptly, he let the blade slide back into its case.

Time for a test.

He stepped out and faced more than twenty pirates, all of whom immediately stopped talking at his appearance. Heads turned. Eyebrows arched.

_If I plan to be the world's best…_

There, the man with the gun. He was gnawing on a chicken leg (one end of which ended in a scaly yellow foot), and was wearing a pair of tall, well-polished crimson boots. Disinterested black eyes met Boy's yellow ones, and then widened briefly in recognition.

Boy heard the fluxion of air, the inhale as the former pirate prepared to speak. Well, he couldn't have that.

"Give it back," he said, and found to his pleasure that there was enough force behind the words to make a couple of backs straighten. Good. They _should _be listening. He was giving them a fair warning, which was more than he'd planned on his way here.

"Give _what _back?" Hand moving to gun. Not good.

"The knife—"

And then he saw it. Right there, _right there _across the fire. The predominant issue with getting it back, though, was that it was speared through the pirate's drumstick. Boy watched with wordless outrage as strips of chicken meat peeled away around the blade he had labored over.

Now, _that _was too much.

"The _knife_," he said in tones of ice, "that you are _eating _with. I want it back. You could put a bullet through my head, but I've gambled on you as a fighting man." He glanced at the rifle's muzzle, trying to appear nonchalant. "Unless you're too lazy."

There was no collective gasp from the crowd, no physical change in the man's followers (and he was unmistakably the leader), but the atmosphere tensed slightly. The fire's squeaking and sputtering grew louder in the taut stillness. Boy had crossed a line. If he was lucky, it would be the right one.

Red-boots looked Boy slowly up and down, frowning slightly. He looked like an intelligent man, but perhaps, if Boy was lucky, a prideful one as well. A man motivated by cold intelligence alone would shoot the intruder there and then, putting aside personal interests. But he was the captain of a mob of pirates, and such people were notoriously unreliable; appearance is _everything_.

As certain as he was of all this, Boy couldn't help feeling relieved when Red-boots stood, setting aside the gun. He eyed Boy levelly, looking far too grave to be the man who had tried to kill him twice before.

"And I'm guessing you're looking for a swordfight," he said carelessly. Boy nodded once, not taking his eyes off of the man. Red-boots rolled his head to one side, gesturing broadly to the erstwhile pirates behind him. There was a moment of muttered conference, and then a cutlass was offered. Old, heavier than the average blade of its kind, but well-balanced. He could only hope Curry's steel was made of stronger stuff.

_One hand on the hilt, just to make sure he knows I mean business, but don't try to guard yet…Be an amateur again. _

Though, of course, he couldn't afford to keep that image for as long as he had before. This was not practice.

Somehow, though, Boy wasn't frightened at all. Perhaps he should have been; Red-boots was older, stronger, and probably far more experienced than the skinny teenager before him. But an irrepressible certainty crouching in Boy's gut that told him he couldn't possibly lose.

This may have been why he failed to react immediately when the pirate swung first.

Metal crashed on metal, and Red-boots' sword skimmed over Curry's saber to take a healthy slice out of Boy's shirt. Boy swore loudly and involuntarily, feeling blood begin to flow just above his bicep. Just for _once, _he wanted to finish a battle unharmed. There was no way to mend a shirt like this without making the stitches painfully obvious.

Guard _up_, but Red-boots had retreated again, still watching him. A tactician, perhaps. Boy smiled thinly, stretching his sword arm until the shoulder popped. Curry was a chess master, then. There was nothing he couldn't deal with from a man with skills this limited. _Rise up, as they say, and _bring it_._

Forward again, into the fray! His turn for the offensive. A little gingerly at first, testing the range of his ability, and then more aggressively as it became apparent that the only thing protecting his adversary was creative footwork. Scarlet leather flashed in the firelight, gleaming with a well-polished luster. _Distracting_.

Lunge, sweep-couldn't consciously keep track of the flow without losing it and didn't try to. The man's offense was clumsy but wild and unpredictable; trying to find a pattern was like looking for repetitions in the sea's waves. Instead, Boy let his arm move of its own accord, forming a cage of parries around himself. The beat of the clashing swords shuddered in his bones, exhilarating, spurring him on.

The crowd had pulled away from the fire, forming a wider ring around the fight. He could feel the gazes of many sweeping over the show, darting from face to face—thin and pale, square-jawed and stubbly. The difference in physique had to seem impossible-_almost toe-to-toe for a moment, eyes and blades locked-_Boy almost laughed at the thought of it-_dancing away again, always an inch from the saber's edge_-how absurd it must look…

But as the battle dragged on, Boy's good humor began to ebb. No matter how aggressive the sweep or jab, no matter how fiercely he tested Red-boots' defense, his sword always seemed to whisper harmlessly through the hot air, never quite connecting with flesh.

Swing low; _crimson leather blurs away_, swing high; _steel catches on steel—the ring of it makes his ears buzz. _The man's blocks were ferocious in their forcefulness, as though he was desperate to guard his torso as solidly as possible, forcing Boy to aim his strikes instead at Red-boots' lower half—a futile endeavor in the face of the pirate's agility. After a few minutes of this, Boy's shoulders began to ache and burn with the effort, fatigue tugging at his muscles.

A flash of bared teeth told him that this had been the pirate's goal from the start—Red-boots was _smiling_, confident now in his victory. How _annoying_. How utterly aggravating! The nerve of the man, grinning like a cat about to kill a rat!

It was a close thing. Boy was so _very _near to simply rushing recklessly at Red-boots with the intent to draw blood, and, indeed, his leg muscles had already tensed for action before he suddenly realized what he was about to do. Through the campfire's flames, he could see green pirate eyes watching him, clear and calculating even past a veil of jumping shadows. He _was _a tactician, better than Boy could previously have credited him with. And Boy had been prepared to snatch the bait and be done for.

They circled.

Anger would provide strength…

Fingers sweaty over the sword's hilt, Boy let his mind go icy.

…but it would also make him careless.

Red-boots was cautious again, now that his trap had failed. The air was tight with anticipation; all around, the pirates shifted forward a little; the unexpectedly entertaining show was coming to a close.

_You've got to be sharp._

Watch him.

_Fast._

Watch his eyes.

_Cold._

Watch his feet.

_All at once._

Watch the way his weight shifts.

_Keep your hawk's eyes out for it, because it's coming—soon—_

A rush—a flash—he could see the flow of moves, only for an instant, but it was enough. Heel slide, sway to the right, sharp to the left, and _under—_

Cutting human flesh is not as easy as it might sound or look. Even so, Boy managed to pull the slice in time to escape any serious wounds on his own part, and dodged immediately out of Red-boots' range. Everything was almost painfully clear in his vision, whether because of adrenaline or elation or both. His nostrils stung with the tangy scent of blood, and he was surprised to see that none of it had clung to the blade of Curry's sword. Even now, a patch of dark red was blossoming over Red-boots' tawdry waistcoat.

Gritted teeth, sweat over stubble, eyes squinting with the sudden pain. Suddenly, his enemy seemed far less imposing. Boy was about to open his mouth and taunt the pirate when said pirate beat him to it.

"_Menina!"_

Boy did not turn his head. He knew instinctively who Red-boots was talking to, and he refused to suffer any further distraction.

"Father?"

Red-boots spoke to the girl, but his eyes were still fixed, unblinking, on Boy's. "If he shows any sign of attacking, shoot him."

"Got it."

The sound of a rifle being loaded.

_Damn_.

Boy felt every muscle in his body try to freeze, stiffen, avoid this new and unexpected hazard. Unfortunately, something had settled into place in his brain after the battle on Red Rock Island, and it had stuck that way. _Do not run away, do not surrender, do not let go of the fight._

_Even when there are guns involved?_

_ It's a learning experience._

It took Boy only a moment's thought to come to what was possibly the most dangerous (and brainless) decision of his life.

_Speed—_

-_it was unexpected—deadpan, then shock, then movement, too slow—_

He was expecting the resistance this time, and pulled the strike cleanly across the man's chest (_no time to check for a reaction, there was the trigger and the blast)_. He spun around—

Three things happened in the split second before the bullet finished its journey, and they are as follows…

Firstly: Boy noticed that he could almost follow the track of the bullet as it moved through the air.

Secondly: Boy noticed that he was not at _all _fast enough to do anything about it.

Thirdly: Boy noticed that if he just _jumped _to one side…

…the shot would avoid any major areas and, puncture his right thigh instead, like an explosion going off inside the muscle—

_which was PAINFUL—_

Boy did not scream. He had decided against screaming (ever, _ever_ again), but he tasted the blood from his lower lip before he realized his teeth had sheared through it. But there was Red-boots on the ground, hands gripping the fresh wound, and over there…

Blood flowing freely over his chin, Boy scrambled around the fire, eyes fastened on the slice of gleaming steel, still half-embedded in a hunk of meat.

He could sense the count-down to violence ticking in the back of his neck—in a couple of seconds, all hell would break loose and he might just die for real. He wasn't quite far enough to take all of them on yet, and now that he was no longer engaged in a proper battle…time to get out. His fingers closed around the knife's handle, and even with the agony in his leg and crushed lip, he found time to be surprised by the sense of familiarity that came from contact with the little weapon.

_Out of time. _

Suddenly there was a mob all around him, tossing and heaving and shouting and brawling and all trying to either kill him or each other. Heels dug into his toes and the sounds of mass violence encompassed Boy's now-muddled senses. Blades clashed and pistols fired, and he barely managed to loop the knife's cord around his neck when a vicious elbow to the ribs from an especially brawny pirate managed to send him flying out of the fray. It left him winded and aching, but Boy felt a moment's relief simply to be away from the claustrophobic press of bodies.

Then someone shouted and pointed and he _ran_. It seemed he'd been doing that a lot recently—more often than he really cared to, in fact. But the indignation was immaterial in comparison to the unbearable pain now throbbing in his leg. Muscles all over his body twitched and jerked in sympathy each time his right foot sank into the ground.

There were people behind him. He could hear footsteps, some thundering and clumsy, but others, more worryingly, that sifted quick and quiet over dried leaves and dead branches. And there was laughter, too. They were coming after him for the sport of it. Ordinarily, he'd be furious at this lunacy, turn around and attack, but in this situation—

_You said you wouldn't run_

Boy stumbled, clutching his thigh with one hand, eyes wide at the thought jabbing his mind.

_I'm injured!_

_ What's that to do with it, coward?_

Sweat beaded on the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. His shirt was plastered to his back. Behind him, the smell of gunpowder flared through the musty forest air. Boy ducked behind a tree trunk—inadequate cover, but the closest he could find.

He was arguing with himself again.

_I'm not _part _of that fight right now! I don't have any obligation to—_

_ An old man's words, not yours! You are obligated to improve your skills! Will you abandon that opportunity for the sake of a mere bullet?_

He gulped bile and fear, gritted his teeth, and tried to estimate the location of his pursuers. They'd slowed now, but from the uneasy mutters, they didn't know where he was. That was good. Boy hauled in soft, urgent gulps of air, trying to keep his madly-pounding heart content without alerting anyone to his presence.

There was someone behind him, breath and heartbeat, and Boy heard the feather-light ring of a sword being drawn, saw the movement and the blood. Then he realized that the hand and the sword were his; instinct replaced knowledge in times of stress.

But it couldn't last long—his leg prickled and numbness pulsed in his right foot. Soon, he'd lose control, and then he'd _truly _be—

-There was no time to think about that. Fire snapped in his shoulder as steel bit into the skin, and Boy felt his heartbeat flicker with anger at his own inadequacy. He shot his most fearsome glare at the man, exhaling his fury with a shock of pained breath. The pirate flinched, cowered back from him for a moment, and Boy wrenched the curved sword from his shoulder with a scornful grunt.

A split second later, he barely had time to wheel around and divert the path of a spear blade—a club there, a fist that met its unfortunate fate against Curry's saber, grabbing hands that snagged and scratched at his sword arm, tangling the flow of his strikes. He felt he could almost hear fingers beyond the melee, sweaty on their triggers. With a unified pirate crew, perhaps they might have been less eager to fire at a target among their comrades, but Boy didn't trust these snipers to care who they shot in the darkness.

_Haki_, force and vigor, an air of terror, _where had it gone? _Icy and sharp—_someone else behind me, block and stab—_find it again!

But it's difficult to find chilly calmness in the midst of a brawl, and Boy was having a hard enough time staying alive. He swung and lunged, generally with good chances of drawing blood, but there were _too many of them. _Oddly enough, the thought that he would die never occurred to Boy. Considering the circumstances, it certainly should have. Instead, he could think only of the anger building inside his ribcage at his flagging arms. It was _pathetic, _frankly, how easily his muscles had tired, and—_dodge, duck, block as best you can (pain)_—if only he was stronger, he wouldn't be _bleeding _so much now.

A gun fired, and almost simultaneously, heat spattered across Boy's face. For a single panicking moment, he thought it was his own blood, but then he saw a man to his left crumple. His fellows trampled him without mercy in the heat of the frenzy; playing dead was not an option.

There seemed to be less pirates than there had been. There were certainly more bodies on the ground, whether groaning and swearing or still and grave-silent.

Ironically, however, the lack of opposition had done very little for Boy's well-being. In fact, with less competition, there seemed to be far better chances of death from the remaining pirates. There were at least five—trying desperately to avoid elimination, he glimpsed a woman whose left eye was a mass of scar tissue, a man with shocking blue hair, and a black-clothed figure carrying a pair of short swords. Others flashed past, too briefly to be seen clearly, but all set on killing one of the others.

But there were only five or so. Even with the greater chance of fatality, they could only do so much. He had a decent chance of leaving this battlefield with all his limbs still attached and, even better, his life.

Part of Boy knew that confidence was a dangerous thing to feel. Part of him was still wary and nervous, perhaps the more mature swordsman. But the majority of him was a teenage boy with a chance of smacking Death's face and escaping. The feeling was intoxicating, despite the horrible pain.

In any case, when the man in black blurred in front of him, swords raised, Boy's reaction was slower than perhaps it might have been. He managed, barely, to guard against one of the swords, but the second blade lodged in his ribs, and, simultaneously, Boy's leg lost all feeling and sagged beneath him. There was a gleam of dulled metal, a flash of movement, and—the man jerked backwards as though pulled by an invisible force. Boy, bloody and filthy but glad to be alive, half-crawled, half-dragged himself away from his attacker. Only when he was well out of the pirate's range did he turn to survey the situation.

It was certainly a strange sight. Both Blue-hair and the dark-clothed man were staggering towards each other, as though their backs had become magnetized. And, indeed, as soon as they made contact, their shirts seemed inseparably locked together. Angry swearing filled the suddenly still night air—the rest of the pirates seemed to have either lost interest or eliminated each other.

Boy was bewildered, but there was no time for that now; another man had appeared, a sheer, barely distinguishable silhouette in the darkness. One hand plainly held a lantern, but the light was shuttered—absolutely no chance of recognition.

Boy heaved himself over the ground until his back was pressed against the base of a tree, staring at the black shape, which strode calmly up to the two pirates and dealt out two heavy blows with some blunt object. They stopped struggling, but stayed standing for a long moment, legs swaying. Then the newcomer gave them a gentle push, and both men fell with a muffled thud.

Silence. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the forest, a night bird warbled. Boy stayed perfectly still, hurting all over and trying not to breathe.

And then the man spoke, and the voice was…familiar…

"Boy? Are you here?"

After a moment's consideration, Boy said, "Over here," or, in any case, he tried to. The words emerged as a garbled rasp, and the forgotten pain his lower lip suddenly reappeared. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again, slurring a little as he tried to avoid moving his mouth overmuch. "I'm over here. By the tree."

The lantern's shutters were flipped open, and warm yellow light washed over Finch's weary face. "That's very vague of you. I knew this would end badly. Keep talking—I still can't see you…"

Boy didn't especially feel like talking. He wanted most of all to rest, in fact. If he was asleep, at least there would be no more pain. But he _did _need a doctor…

"Here. No, over here. To your left. A little forward. Here."

The lantern's inner flame seared his eyes, sensitive as they were from the darkness. Finch must have noticed his wince, because the older man closed one of the panels, dimming the light. He dropped to one knee on the dried leaves and loam, frowning more deeply as the faint illumination revealed bruise after cut after bullet wound.

"I'll have to take care of your leg at my house," he told Boy absentmindedly, "but I can mend most of the worse cuts here."

Boy's eyes searched Finch for any sign of medical supplies, and found none.

"Shirt off," said the man, cracking his knuckles with a series of sharp _pop_s. Boy scowled, eyeing the doctor.

"That's a little—"

"What the hell do you think I am? Give me a look at that hole in your shoulder before you bleed to death, will you?"

It was the first time Boy had heard Finch express anything apart from apathy or mellow surprise. He complied as well as he could, tugging the black shirt one-handed over his head. Finch ran a wet cloth over the gash, and Boy gasped at the sudden burning in the raw flesh. The rag had to be soaked with salt water.

"Seems to be clean enough," Finch muttered, apparently to himself, and then extended both hands to pinch either end of the clean, crimson wound. Further pain rushed over Boy's upper body at this, and he was about to complain that this wasn't any medicinal practice _he'd _ever heard of when Finch pulled his hands away from the hole, fingers still pressed together, and murmured, _"Stitch-stitch…"_

The sensation was quite unlike any he had ever experienced. There was a feeling of pressure, a sharp pain that faded just as suddenly, and then a bizarre feeling best described by the word _squish. _

When he next looked at the injury, the skin there was still angry red from irritation and smeared blood, but the once-parted flesh had closed neatly again, leaving only a faint puckered line. Boy stared, first at the scar and then at Finch, and then back once more at the scar.

"And that was…?"

"Ah," said the doctor absentmindedly, hands hovering over a messy cut by Boy's ribs, "that was Devil Fruit at work."

Boy stared.

The process was mesmerizing. Muscles wove together again. Flesh came together and folded in as though it had been sewed, but Finch's hands held neither needle nor thread.

"Earlier, those two men…" said Boy, aware of how dazed he sounded but not especially concerned.

"Stitched their shirts together," Finch said, eyes fixed on yet another cut as he spoke. "It's harder to do at a distance, with bigger objects…"

"How did you get it?"  
A shrug. Fingers pinched, tugged, loosened. "Lost a bet."

Boy had been expecting something, perhaps, more dramatic than this, but didn't comment. It made sense, anyway. The doctor and his… "The 'Stitch-stitch' fruit?" Boy wondered aloud, and Finch nodded once, closing the last wound.

"Can you stand?"

Boy finished the clumsy task of pulling his shirt back on, then glanced at his right leg, which jerked and twinged when he tried to move it. He shook his head slowly, frowning at the injured extremity.

"Alright, then. Give me one arm, and don't—_don't _put weight on that leg!"

The way back to Finch's house was agonizingly slow, and though Boy had no wish to converse, Finch himself appeared to undergo a sudden need to expound at length upon the tools and techniques with which he planned to remove the bullet from Boy's leg. By the time they arrived, the horizon was pallid with oncoming dawn, and Boy never wanted to hear the word "pliers" again.

Curry was asleep by the door when they entered the house. Boy discovered this the hard way when he tripped over the old man's legs, which left Curry miraculously still sleeping, while Boy's pain redoubled. Eyes watering, he glared at his teacher.

At some point, Finch began the process of removing the bullet from where it had lodged in Boy's muscle, but exactly when that began and ended was hazy in Boy's mind. He was given a strip of leather, with the assurance that it had been washed, to grit his teeth around, and remembered doing so with tooth-aching force. There were the scents of blood, lead, and sweat, and the sensation of cold, clean metal instruments against raw flesh. Sight blurred, faded in and out of blackness. Waves of prickling heat swept over his body, followed by icy tingling—though all sensations were overlaid by erratic flashes of pain. And then, at some indefinite juncture, he remembered nothing at all.

When Boy awoke, he did not open his eyes. He already knew where he was and what had happened, and was more than a little irritated at it.

The air smelled of salt. The wooden floor beneath him tilted hypnotically back and forth, and over the sounds of moving water he could hear a cheerful voice informing him that he must "fashion a meal should he wish to remain aboard".

Boy rolled over, groaning and wondering how Curry had known he was awake. More importantly, why had that stupid old man dragged him onto the boat before he _had _woken? He at least owed Finch a thank-you, and there were still questions to ask Red-boots. And what if Curry went crazy again?

…Wait.

A boot nudged his side. Boy ignored it, nostrils twitching as the odor of cigarette smoke wafted over him.

"I have no inhibitions in the realm of causing you discomfort, Boy. Or whatever your name may be. Now, arise and craft an edible dish for our consumption!"

Ah. So he still remembered nothing. Boy sat up, pursing his lips as the action began to stir up the various aches covering his body.

"Where did this ship come from, Curry?"

"That, Boy, is none of your concern."

_He stole it. Fabulous. _Boy spared his alien surroundings a cursory look, feeling a little sour at the unfamiliarity of them. The boat was shaped differently—larger, with more spacious decks. It would take a while for him to become accustomed to it. And the craft almost certainly was not equipped with a forge below-decks, which meant there would probably be more theft in the future.

But right now, none of that was important, because he was _hungry_. Viciously hungry. Had this not been so, Boy might have been more reluctant to make the excruciating climb up the stairs to a higher deck. There he found a brick fireplace set into the wooden planks, already filled with darting yellow flames. Around it, parcels and jars had been arrayed for his use. With them, Boy was able to concoct a stew of a handful of new ingredients that he could only assume had come from Belt Island (turtle meat, which Curry had stolen for some inexplicable and probably sadistic reason, some mysterious spices, and strange, radish-like vegetables).

Some time later, Curry ascended to the upper deck as well, wearing a curious expression and carrying two clay bowls in one hand. He leaned slowly forward to peer at the bubbling mixture, nostrils flaring, and appeared to consider its merit for a long moment. Then, appraisal complete, he poured a measure of the stuff into both bowls and pulled a tarnished spoon from one pocket.

Boy observed his mentor carefully for the first few bites. When Curry failed to exhibit any signs of turning green or foaming at the mouth, Boy took his own bowl and spoon and sampled it tentatively.

It wasn't actually horrendous. This was so unexpected that Boy actually paused with the spoon in his mouth, eyebrows raised. He turned, intending comment on this eventuation to Curry, but the words halted momentarily when he saw that the old man was wearing an expression of surprise and slight accusation. Boy stared for a moment, waiting for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he spoke instead.

"…Curry."

He was staring at the turtle meat, eyebrows lowered in what appeared to be intense concentration. He raised a piece to his mouth, chewed slowly for a moment, and then swallowed. Boy, bewildered, opened his mouth to speak again, but Curry cut him off, his eyes still fixed on the stew.

"Turtles," said Curry. It was probably the only one-word sentence he had spoken in his life, and it took Boy a moment to understand what exactly the old man was talking about.

"You've remembered," said Boy, glancing at the turtleflesh floating in his own bowl. Yes, they had eaten enough of it throughout their journey that the taste _might_ just bring it all back to Curry, but it seemed like a bit of a stretch…

"Throw it all overboard," said Curry, and flicked the meat into the sea. "I shall never again in my life consume such foodstuff."

Boy allowed himself a small smile at this, and, for once, he was glad to follow Curry's orders.

A while later, after they had both finished their stew (sans any trace of turtle), Boy allowed his earlier resentment to return.

"We might have stayed for a while longer."

"And why would I have any inclination to do so? That land was not especially intriguing, Boy."

"I should have asked Finch who the world's greatest swordsman is," said Boy, somewhat bitterly. The idea hadn't occurred to him during their stay on Belt Island, but it had leapt into his head as he ate, and it had stuck. Curry never read the newspapers; of course he wouldn't know (he'd said so before). But surely Finch, as a former pirate…

"There's not a man who knows," said Curry, and produced a bottle of whiskey from beneath his trench coat. Boy wondered briefly where exactly it had been stowed, but this was swiftly replaced by the impact of Curry's words.

He gave a short laugh, disbelieving. "_Someone _must know."

"Negative, my good brat. For the moment, it's a matter of opinion. However," he added, wrinkles twitching with a sly smile, "I expect there's a majority opinion. All you need do is inquire after this swordsman, truth?"

"What if no one feels like telling me?" Boy snapped, thinking of bloodthirsty pirates in the woods and cries of _"shoot him!"_

Curry's eyes gleamed. "I believe you spoke on this earlier, having consumed gratuitous amounts of alcohol on Red Rock Island…"

_ "I…I figure…I shink. Think. Think if I beat everybonny who say they're the bed. Best…"_

Boy colored at the memory. Not an experience he would ever want to repeat. But there _was _a strategy in there somewhere.

"Fine," he said, tilting his head back to stare at the pale noon sky. "Very well. I'll work my way systematically through each of the Blues, then. Get myself a reputation. Swordsmen should begin to seek me out eventually, if I act arrogant enough."

"Well thought out," said Curry, and one could almost imagine that there was no hint of sarcasm in his tone. "However, I forbid you from utilizing my own weapon for your own purposes. It shall be your obligation to purchase a blade of your own. Do you comprehend?"

Boy glared, but without great conviction. His mind was already occupied with thoughts of other swordsmen, different styles and codes of honor and artistry open for observation. And danger, of course. But he was becoming accustomed to that, and as soon as his leg would support his weight safely, he could begin his search for the world's greatest swordsman.

"I comprehend," he said. "Did Finch tell you when my leg should heal?"

* * *

**Next chapter: Boy begins his epic and somewhat improbably quest to conquer the Blues (swordsman-wise), and Curry sings for us. **

** Went back and to change words and fix spelling errors in part 6 (too wordy). And Curry's memory loss turned out not to be important after all...what the heck...I was expecting at _least _a humorous argument, but nooo...**

**_If you feel like reviewing but can't think of anything: Tell me, please, how I might improve the summary of this story. What makes a summary good? What would catch your eye and reassure you that I'm trying not to write a conventional story here? Or do you just think it's good as is...penguins and all?_  
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**REVIEW REPLIES**

**Ilex_Crataegus: Ah, well, there goes the action. I suppose I should think of something for Boy to do apart from swordfighting, perhaps... And Boy will nab a name for himself somewhere in North Blue, on a snowy little island... But I shan't spoil it. Suffice to say I'm working on it. I'm getting tired of calling him Boy (especially since he's going to be seventeen soon).**

**Twilight-Imp-626: Indeed. You have summed up the situation with great accuracy. XD Isn't UP awesome?**

**Senko-chan: Another vote for naming it is, then. I shall endeavor to bring that up soon-somewhere around Part 9, maybe. (I'm sorry-by then we will all be old and gray, right?)**

**AttilaTheBunny: Good. It is a life experience (watching UP, that is). Yes, this is the first island on which Boy has been seriously injured...I suppose it is more serious than the others. **

**You know, I actually considered having that be exactly what Curry was doing? But, as you can see, it went a different way... Something of a pity, I think. **

**Then this is the perfect time to get caught up! No rush, but maybe a chapter a day...'course, the early chapters are badly scanlated. Anyway, I once again urge you to read more OP! Especially considering the epicness of recent chapters! **

**Rom Nom Nom: Cool name, dude(tte). Anyway. Whoa, Kuma the anarchist...that's intense. If you ever find it again, note me or something, yeah? Thank you! Here's hoping this chapter's quality's up to par. **

**dragonchild25: Thanks very much!**

**Roronoanne: Ich spreche nur ein Bisschen Hochdeutsch...hab's in Schule gelernt. Sowieso, dein Englisch ist viel besser als mein Deutsch, nicht wahr?**

**...Anyway! I can't keep the German up for long, so thank you very much! I love in-depth reviews-they make me very happy and warm and fuzzy inside. It's especially nice to hear that my OCs are decent. And, yes, Mihawk is freakin' awesome! **

**All Nightmare Long: That's what I thought! Definite Dracula references, right? (Remember the snowy island...mentioned it to Ilex...remember the island...) -ahem- Thank you very much, especially because you've given me a chance to explain my grand timeline scheme. Check this out...**

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**Indeed, the Boy in Loguetown was Smoker, as he appears when six years old. He is a street urchin. At this point, Boy is approximately fifteen years old, making the difference between their ages nine years (yes, I can do subtraction-don't be alarmed).**

**Word of God says that Smoker was twelve years old when Gol D. Roger was executed. That would make Boy (or, by that time, Mihawk) nineteen at that time, which about matches his appearance in Strong World 0. **

**Current time: Smoker is thirty-four, making Mihawk forty-three. Good? Or are there people who never really thought of Mihawk as an older guy and want me to FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT, because I _can _get rid of Smoker. Or, um, if you actually know his real age (because it's not on OPWiki), that would be fantastic.**


	8. Part VIII: Lessons

**The chapter as promised!**

**New theory: Mihawk is thirty-nine, making him two years older than Shanks (doesn't he seem it? Or maybe it's just his attitude). Does that meet approval? I certainly like it better than forty-three.**

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Part VIII: Lessons

_"I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it." -Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)_

Small tavern, cold rain leaking in through a crack in the wooden shingles. Gaudy clothes, battered frippery, rough words bandied from one corner of the room to another. Behind the bar, crinkled WANTED posters, full of infamous faces. Front and center: a grinning man by the name of Gol D. Roger, wanted dead or alive.

In one corner sat an old man, whose wide-brimmed brown hat obscured most of his iron-gray hair. Every so often, he would glance up at the teenager sitting across from him, a pale, bony boy with aristocratic features and intense golden eyes. Occasionally, they conversed in low tones—the boy in a light, sardonic voice, the man with robust pitch and rounded vowels. For the moment, they went unnoticed by their neighbors.

* * *

Curry was making a pair of gloves. No, that was inaccurate. He was sawing off the fingers of a pair of gloves. Boy didn't see the point; after all, the principle of gloves was to keep one's hands warm. What was point if your fingers froze? But Curry _had _bought them with his own money, which made it his business. The only thing that truly irked Boy about it was that the old man was using Boy's knife to cut through the cheap gray cloth.

"You could use your sword."

"It is unwieldy and therefore unsuited to the task."

"You could have bought a pair of scissors."

"And _you_, Boy, could shut your yattering jaws and allow me to labor in peace. I assure you, no harm shall come to your masterpiece."

Curry had been irritable for weeks now, having run out of both whiskey and cigarettes. Aggravating him now might not be the best choice. Still seething, Boy shut his mouth and instead searched the room for swords. The issue, of course, would be separating the chaff from the wheat. A blade was a convenient weapon, and it wasn't uncommon to see them carried by mercenaries with no real knowledge of the art of swordsmanship.

In the last few towns they had passed through, Curry had begun to teach him, off-hand, about walks. How someone moved could provide a surprising amount of information, and while no two swordsman had exactly the same stride or stance, their steps were still separate from those of a normal person. There were also the matters of physique, eye movement, and manner of speaking, but Curry had opined that of all of these, a man's walk was the best choice.

Unfortunately, most of the men in the establishment were sitting and drinking, not pacing up and down past Boy's table.

It had been almost five months since he had been wounded on Belt Island, and in those months, Boy had learned myriad new things. He was now able to trim his own hair with his knife (although his attempts at shaving had not gone as smoothly), and had familiarized himself the layout of the new boat. He had learned how to fight on one leg, though he hoped that that particular skill would never be useful again. He had also been forced to master the skill of wrapping his own bandages, which Curry had assured him were necessary to avoid infection.

All in all, an educational experience, but he was glad to see the end of it. If all went well, this would be his first successful battle on two feet. He was looking forward to it. And he had even reached an agreement with Curry over the acquisition of a new sword.

But that came later. For now, all they had to do was wait for someone to pick a fight—or, in the absence of a rabble-rouser, for Boy to find someone worthy to be the object of his less-than-friendly attentions.

An hour later, when the door swung open on whining hinges, Boy's knife hung in its usual place, and Curry now wore a slightly ragged pair of fingerless gloves. These theoretically prepared him for their continued travels in North Blue, where the islands tended towards more wintry climates.

The man who entered was followed by two others—another man and a woman. The first man, dressed in a battered and bloodstained Marine coat (a grisly secondhand acquisition, perhaps), was clearly the leader, but Boy had no interest in him. There was a rifle strapped over his back, and it was the only visible weapon on his person. Boy had no interest in rifles. Instead, his eyes turned to the woman behind him; inhumanly tall and thin, with a nose that was crooked from past breaks and wild, flaming orange hair.

There was a lacquered black sheath hanging from one hip, a hilt wrapped with cord, a round guard. A sword, well-used but still in fine condition.

Curry let his head rock to one side, giving the newcomers a practiced once-over, and then turned back to Boy, one gray eye peering at his student from beneath the brim of his hat.

"That, young apprentice, is an East Blue style sword. Observe the lavish detail of the cross-guard? The effort lavished on binding the handle? _That_ is true elegance and quality."

"I thought you said you preferred West Blue swords," Boy murmured, putting one hand on the hilt of the saber on the bench beside him. This would be the last time he used it.

"Indeed," Curry said. "They are far less expensive and require a great deal less effort to forge."

"Lazy old man."

"I believe you have an agenda," said Curry brusquely. "As do I. My beer has yet to arrive. Engage your opponent of choice, and I shall speak firmly with the proprietor of this enterprise."

"Fine," said Boy, and sat back to wait.

It took longer than he had expected. The three pirates (for they were clearly pirates) seemed to survey every inch of the cramped, jostling room before noticing Boy, alone and seemingly harmless at his table in the corner. The captain gave a singularly wolfish grin and nudged the other man, a dark-skinned pirate with angular features and eyes that never stopped moving. There was quick exchange of words, lost in the clamor of the tavern, and then the sharp man laughed and beckoned to the swordswoman. All three made their way through the crowd to Boy's table in the back.

His heart skipped a couple beats, and he had to restrain a smile of his own as the captain put one broad, scarred hand down on the tabletop. The gesture was probably meant to be intimidating.

"Hey, kid."

"Find somewhere else," said Boy immediately. He was in no mood to build up to a fight; his hand itched to hold a sword again.

The three seemed taken aback for a moment, and then the woman burst into laughter, interspersed by sharp snorts from her crooked nose.

"_Gihaha!_" (Snort.) "Better back off, Renjen! What a cocky little bastard! _Giha!_"

Boy stood, tucked the saber through his belt, and brushed past Captain Renjen and his other friend. The woman seemed even taller from this close, but he wouldn't let that deter him. He'd waited long enough.

"You." She stopped laughing for a moment, eyes watering, and stared down at him.

"'Me' what?"

"Who is the world's greatest swordsman?"

She raised both eyebrows, placing one casual hand on the hilt of her sword. "What if she's a swords_woman_, kid?"

"Firibastel, just chop the brat and we can take a seat," Renjen interjected impatiently. He had already usurped Curry's empty chair, which would probably prove not to be the best choice when the old man returned.

"Hang on," said Firibastel, waving one hand at the captain. "Well, what about it?"

"No matter—I'll surpass them either way," said Boy levelly. "I take it you don't know, then. A pity. Fight me."

"What?" She blinked, frowning as though the words hadn't quite registered.

"Fight me. If you prefer, I'll move outside, but I hate getting wet."

"I'm not gonna fight a little brat with his daddy's sword," she said, the chuckle behind the words tacking another snort onto the end of the sentence.

"Makes you easier to beat then," said Boy. "But if you want to live, you don't have a choice." And he snapped Curry's saber out of its scabbard. Her laughing face only had a fraction of a second to shift to suspicion before he attacked.

Instantly, there was the clash, metal on metal, making his bones twang. She was _fast_. It was a good feeling, a _fantastic _feeling after his months out of commission, but it had, after all, been months... He skipped back a step, eyes fixing on his opponent's…sword…

He made completely sure that his expression did not change, but his mind clattered frantically in his skull, trying helplessly to find an explanation. Only one seemed at all plausible. A year ago, he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he had survived the Grand Line's madness, and it things had become easier to believe.

_Can a sword be drawn and re-sheathed so fast as to be invisible?_

Boy had been…well, proud of his quick-draw skills. He tried not to be envious. "Impressive," he told her, restraining his annoyance.

"I'd say the same of you, kid. Pretty neat, the way you did that. But don't think I'll underestimate you again." She rolled her head on her shoulders, filling the air with faint pops, and sniffed noisily. "I mark a swordsman by the first hit, and judging by yours…you're maybe a _bit _weaker than me." She winked, a gesture that said, _I'm kidding. You're no match. _Then, with more than a little ceremony, she reached into one pocket and pulled out a strip of lurid green-paisley cloth, which she secured around her forehead.

"You're goin' down, boy," said Renjen's voice, and his other companion chuckled in a way that was not at all encouraging. Firibastel shot them a grin that gleamed with two gold teeth, and then started toward the door, motioning with one hand for Boy to follow her. However, as he began to move, a flicker of movement in the watching crowd caught his eye.

Curry raised one eyebrow at him.

Boy shrugged.

Curry twitched his head irately in the direction of Renjen. _Why has this ruffian usurped my seat?_

Boy shrugged again, waving one hand dismissively, and then raised his own eyebrows, circling his thumb and forefinger into an East Blue hand gesture.

Curry nodded, still frowning.

"You coming, kid?"

He turned away and trotted out into the rain, allowing himself a moment's pleasure in the stretch and spring of his healed muscles. Outside, the street was a mudflat, sucking at his shoes as he walked. Shoes, Boy decided, were impractical. They let mud and water in, which was vexing. He would have to buy boots at some point. When he had money.

Orange curls now safely out of her face, Firibastel put one firm hand on the hilt of her sword and deepened her stance expectantly. Boy, saber readied for an attack, waited with swiftly decreasing patience for her to move. Instead, she simply stood where she was, her grin widening with every second that nothing happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, Boy could see Curry edging around the fringes of the steadily-shrinking crowd until he was behind Firibastel, out of her range of vision. He gestured expansively to the lack of spectators, and then jabbed one finger pointedly at the small, un-varnished box in the other hand, mouthing, _Do something._

Fine.

He advanced, slowly at first, testing his limits, and then more quickly as his leg responded favorably. Dodge left, right, feint (but flagrantly, to give the crowd something to look at), and sweep down for a blow to her unprotected left side.

Metal flashed, rang, and the saber bounced harmlessly back. Boy stumbled clumsily backwards, eyes fixed on the now re-sheathed sword. Only the faintest suggestion of motion had betrayed its withdrawal, and he now wondered, a little apprehensively, exactly what such skills might work in the area of offense.  
"That was kinda pathetic," said Firibastel, her grin quirking into a lopsided frown. "You sure you're giving it your all?"

Boy decided not to justify that with a response, and went on the most brazen and eye-catching offensive in the history of swordplay. To anyone with experience in the finer points of the art, it would have looked atrocious, but to Boy's knowledge, this island wasn't populated with swordsmen. This was noisy and eye-catching enough to attract a bit of a crowd at least.

Curry was laughing silently behind Firibastel's back, and the pirate herself seemed more annoyed by the second, not even bothering to use her quick-draw as she deflected every flamboyant strike.

"Y'know, boy, if I get bored, this is gonna go downhill fast."

Boy chanced a look around. At least twenty people had gathered to watch, and a gloved thumbs-up to his left told him that the game was afoot.

Now, to pull this off without dying…that would be an entirely separate issue. Boy swung across at Firibastel's midsection, putting all his strength behind the blade. She blocked, again with that uncanny speed, but it seemed to Boy that there was less force behind it without the additional momentum of unsheathing. Vantage number one. He filed it away for later reference, whenever Curry signaled clearance for victory.

"This is getting _real _stupid," growled the redhead, all traces of her cocky grin gone now. "What say I just finish this _now_?" She took a wide swipe at shoulder-height, which Boy dodged with ease, feeling infinitely more confident. And then she re-sheathed her sword and he realized she had just been shaking him off so that she could—

"We call this _Iai_," she said, and then she was gone. One second, her breath was in front of him; the next, a rush of air took it behind him and there was a searing pain in his right shoulder and collarbone. Droplets of blood spattered into the mud at his feet, and he could feel it soaking into his shirt even as he whirled around, searching wildly for his foe. Just as he caught a glimpse of orange hair, however, his feet tangled around a well-placed boot and suddenly he was trying to breathe mud.

Gasping, his hauled himself to his hands and knees, barely managing to swing to one side as Firibastel tried to shove his head back to the ground with one foot. Dripping with mud, he forced himself to his feet and tried to ignore the laughter coming from the now-expanding audience. _Nothing attracts a crowd like another human being's humiliation._

Well, then, that was perfect. But he had no desire for that mud to touch any part of him but the soles of his feet, and—

He barely dodged another slash, gritting his teeth as he rolled his right arm in his socket. _This is nothing. This is nothing. I can still move. I'm lucky._

_ …She went easy on me._

For some reason, this incensed Boy to the point of fury. He regained his footing, eyes narrowed with concentration, and focused his vision on his opponent with great intensity. Everything sharpened to an almost painful degree, and the world around him pulsed with breath for a moment. He could see for a moment the muscles in Firibastel's forearm twitch, and then there was a silent surge…

This time, the elegantly curved blade bit into his ribs, and somewhere in a dark corner of his brain, Boy wondered how much the tailoring would cost. The rest of his mind was occupied with the thought, _I can see it._

Firibastel took a break from quick-draw and returned to direct fighting, where Boy was forced to abandon his showman's tricks in favor of staying alive.

_I can see it._

She was unnaturally fast, there was no doubt about that. But he was close to following her movements, and the technique named _Iai _seemed to be a straightforward one, relying on speed. If he could just match that…

But could he? Even if he had been capable of it before, he was losing blood now, and his right arm was beginning to tingle uncomfortably around the wound.

The watchers were yelling for a finish, and Boy saw, through the sweat beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes, a broad-brimmed brown hat waving. The go-ahead.

_Remember, this is nothing._

He attacked.

The movement grated at his shoulder, but his speed was up to his usual standard at least, and he left a clean diagonal slice across her chest, and he swept around for a second blow—_block_—a third—connection! The crowd gave a unanimous groan of sympathy. Boy stumbled backward, trying to regain his footing, and saw through a misty haze of rain two gold teeth glinting.

"Where were you keepin' _that_?" she crowed, flipping her sword in one scarred hand. In that face there was not a sign of concern for the blood slowly soaking into her ripped shirt—indeed, she seemed more exhilarated than anything else. Boy scowled, vexed, and redoubled his attack.

The longer he fought, the clearer it became that speed, not power, was the key. In the face of Firibastel's fierce technique_,_ a swift eye and a swifter block were the only protections he had. His shoulder had begun to ache more deeply now, but if he could just maintain it…

A lightning-sharp jab shot past his neck, leaving a half-inch deep gash in the flesh, and then, as he lost focus in the flare of pain, the sword flashed back into its scabbard.

_It's nothing-it's nothing-WORK PAST IT—_

Surge, breath, and she pulled—

Eyes saw, sinew stretched, all in the same instant he moved, caught, _turned_—the saber sank into her stomach, and now he'd gotten used to the stubbornness of human flesh. He pulled the strike, and at first he thought something had gone wrong. There was neither blood nor any sign of pain on the woman's face. Then, slowly, her mouth twisted into a rough grimace and she staggered, swaying from side to side. At the last moment, she turned to avoid falling face-first into the street, one hand clutching, claw-like, at her stomach.

_Remember the speed…remember that feeling…_

"That seemed too easy," he rasped, wincing as the effort of the last blow began to burn in his shoulder.

"Been sick recently," Firibastel snorted, managing a wry smile. Inside the bar, a clamor started up—probably Renjen and his dark-faced companion's reaction to the finish. Time to go. Boy sought out Curry in the crowd and began to trot towards him.

"_Kid._"

"I don't have time for this," he snapped, glancing back at her. "What is it?"

"_What's…_"(_Snort.) _"…what's your name?"

He paused, caught between the twin agonies of embarrassment and anonymity. He decided to compromise.

"Just remember the eyes," he told her brusquely, and then set after Curry.

* * *

_ Later, when Captain Renjen of the Blue Hell pirates asked his swordswoman wife exactly who had done this to her and how she wanted him to kill the bastard, she just laughed. And then she told him, "Just look for the kid with the freaky eyes."_

_ To which he replied, "The what, now?"_

_ And she said, "The creepy one. With the hawk eyes."_

_ And that was how the rumors started…or so some say.

* * *

_

"Too expensive," said Curry. "In any case, the balance is hideously warped."

They moved on.

"Too cheap," said Boy, frowning. "They haven't wound the hilt properly, anyway."

They tried another.

And another.

After the fifth sword, Boy just dropped the blade in frustration and said, "Shouldn't the Marines arrest anyone imbecilic enough to sell this sort of scrap metal as weaponry?"

"It has been postulated," Curry replied coolly, examining a blunt double-edged sword with one critical eye. "However, no action has as of yet been taken. We can but hope. May I remind you, though, that your elbow space for criticism is severely limited, as the gambling made very poor earnings. I would appreciate it if you attempted to appear somewhat more wretched. It might encourage the onlookers to bet more heavily against you, truth?"

"Hng," said Boy, too displeased by the store's contents to register what may or may not have been a heavily-veiled compliment. "Beggars can't be choosers?"

"And where, pray, might you have snagged such a charming piece of hedgerow colloquialism?"

"You used it last month," said Boy, weighing a short sword in one hand. "When you made me chase you around the deck on one leg for my breakfast."

Curry smiled wistfully. "Ah. Nostalgic."

"Ridiculous."

"It was necessary for your total recovery," the old man informed him, looking somewhat affronted.

"No, this sword. Two thousand beri for a relic like this? Is it even an antique?"

Curry turned his attention to the blade, running one hand carefully down the blade and inspecting the crossguard. "No signature, but _here_, you see, someone has neglected to clean it properly. It may have been of some value once. No longer." He straightened suddenly. "Boy, this location offends my sensitivities. Let us be off."

"I still don't have a sword," Boy grumbled, but only on principle. He was also more than eager to leave the store.

Extensive and rather tiresome searching led them to a somewhat run-down establishment near the shore of the island, where the smell of icy saltwater gusted in under the door and gulls perched on the badly-patched roof. Boy wrinkled his nose in distaste, but Curry's eyes were bright with interest.

"Come, Boy, let us investigate!" And Boy followed, purely because interesting things tended to happen around Curry.

Inside, it was dark, with no sign of human life. A couple of lamps guttered in one corner, and windows to either side of the door illuminated row upon row of gleaming blades and scabbards. Boy was instantly intrigued, and set off into the shadows, semi-aware of Curry doing the same.

These blades proved to be in far better condition than those in the previous store, though there was a far more limited selection. Boy was drawn immediately to the Eastern-style swords, remembering the refined power and speed of those pirates he had seen using them. Streamlined and well-crafted…

…and very expensive. He stepped back from examining a red-lacquered sheath and allowed himself a frustrated sigh. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Curry," he called, his eyes still on the sword, "how much does an East sword cost?"

"That one's twenty thousand beri," said a small and very serious voice from somewhere around his waist. Boy's hand shot to the knife hanging around his neck, but he saw the voice's owner before he could make any aggressive move, and instantly relaxed.

A tiny girl with shaggy brown hair and disturbingly wide gray eyes stared gravely up at him. She nodded to the red-sheathed sword. "Twenty thousand."

"That's…very expensive," said Boy, for a lack of anything else to say.

"There's one in here that's worth five hundred thousand," she told him. "How much money do you have?"

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked, desperate to speak to an adult and, well, maybe just a _little _spooked by the way she didn't blink.

The girl shook her head very slowly. "Father is away and Mother is under the back garden."

"…Oh." Boy looked around, resisting the urge to step away from the kid. "Curry! Where are you?"  
"Here," said the old man's voice from beyond a shelf to Boy's right. "You have found a youngling! Well done." Curry's head appeared from around the racks of swords, and the girl mercifully turned her attention to him instead.

"You ought to buy something."  
"Indeed we shall," said Curry reassuringly, and held up the box of gambling income, shaking it so that the coins inside jingled. "What have you for sixteen thousand beri?"

"Not very much."

"And would you, perhaps, be inclined to haggle?"

She gave him a frighteningly calculating stare. "…Maybe."

Boy, fed up with the exchange, stepped up beside Curry and spoke in a low voice. "You are speaking to a _little girl _about buying a sword."

"Correct! I find her conversation rather more scintillating than some I could name," Curry said pointedly, and then turned his attention back to the shop's temporary owner. "Now, then, if a bargain could be arranged…"

They left half an hour later with a mysterious, scimitar-like weapon. It was alien and awkward to Boy's hand but in excellent condition for its price.

"I don't like it," he told Curry, more than a little sullenly, as they made their way back to the stolen boat. "The feel of it is strange, and it's making me uneasy."

Curry was unimpressed. "In that case, all that remains to be done is for you to alter your perspective thus: win the following battles adequately, and we shall soon acquire enough money to purchase a better."

"Hn," said Boy.

"Did you know," said Curry, "that there is a rule of swordsmen?"

There was a pause. "…No," said Boy, wondering what the old man was thinking of now. Was this another rule like not turning one's back on a fight? Or perhaps a further reprimand about his dislike of the new sword.

"Headwear."

Another pause, longer this time. Boy rolled the word over in his mind, trying to see how it could be anything but a total non-sequitur. Then he said, "…What?"

"Many excellent swordsmen are in possession of impressive headwear," Curry elaborated, with maddening patronization.

Boy glanced, eyebrows raised, at the old man's own immense hat, but Curry just laughed, tugging at the brim with one gloved hand.

"Am I not permitted to be both behatted and a mediocre swordsman?"

"I don't know," said Boy sourly, irritated at the bizarreness of the proposed correlation. It didn't make any sense whatsoever. "Why _hats_?"

"Who knows?" Curry shrugged expansively. "Though headgear is the more appropriate term, as hats are not the only form that such garments appear in."

Boy mulled this over as they walked, considering the plausibility of the theory.

_Curry: hat._

_ Kuya: no hat._

_ Red-Boots: no hat, but he wasn't a proper swordsman._

_ Firibastel: …that horrible green scarf._

Not enough to make his conclusion yet. He would have to wait and see.

* * *

_"Yellow Fox" Rum Simon…has a hat._

It was floppy and gray with a short brim in front, which shaded as cunning a pair of brown eyes as Teals Island had ever seen. Boy had only been fighting for five minutes, and already he hated the hat _and_ its owner.

He had never been in a real bar fight before, and was fairly certain even now that this wasn't a proper one. In a real brawl, everyone attacked everyone. They didn't leave you alone because you had already picked a fight with a certain person. But according to town legend, Rum Simon could get pretty nasty if you messed with his prey.

So while the mob revolved, seething, around Boy's bleeding form, the gray-hatted man ducked unseen through the battling press of bodies, emerging occasionally to ambush Boy. His weapons were two short, machete-like blades, which he handled with more precision than Boy would have deemed possible for their crude appearance. They'd already left more than a few bleeding marks all over his body, which was nevertheless holding up surprisingly well.

This had been going on for almost ten minutes now, which is a longer time, especially for a sword fight, than it might seem. Boy wouldn't say Rum Simon was cheating—that would be making excuses. But neither could he say the man was behaving in a very swordsman-like manner. It was maddening, like battling a swarm of mosquitoes.

Boy had managed to block about one in every five blows, but that would never catch him a winning strike. The issue, of course, was the brawl—_he ducked an elbow_—because without his camouflage, Simon's skills were only those of an ordinary swordsman.

He heard the breath, ducked the blade, and narrowly avoided decapitation. Boy spun about to return the favor, but he saw only a flash of a mischievous, dark-lipped grin before the man vanished again, ducking through the crowd.

Boy, though jostled as he was by the crowd, managed to follow Simon's movements for a couple of seconds before a bottle of liquor whirled through the air, smashing into the back of someone's head and causing a sudden increase in the general uproar.

Someone's hand clouted Boy across the shoulder, and then that man was on his knees with a machete-sword buried in his back. Simon tugged the blade loose, dodged away from Boy's scimitar, and then he was lost once more.

Boy had no time to be concerned with the fate of those who crossed their fight; instead, he was consumed by the matter of following Simon's movements. His battle with Firibastel had been on another stage entirely; he'd had the leisure of an open arena, with no distractions. But here…

He was reminded—_there! Block—miss—_pain-_gone again_…reminded of Belt Island, where he had found himself unable to summon the resolve needed to keep a level head. If he could just balance that icy intent with his fighting energy, he might be able to afford a win…

Beyond the crowd, a hat waved, and Boy let conscious thought sink as far back as he dared let it. He let his eyes focus sharply on everything and anything, and forced his muscles to lose some of their tension.

Unfortunately, the state was hard to maintain while moving. Battle without conscious thought—fueled by instinct and reflex—was always the most effective, but it usually came from a long stretch of non-stop swordplay, which Simon hadn't allowed him throughout the fight.

_-There! _Out of the corner of his eye, there was a flash of swift, direct movement, contrasting sharply against the wild affray around him. Boy turned to follow it, eyes darting over momentary gaps in the crowd, where that same purposeful manner was visible. _Found you._

Quickly, before Simon could have the chance to back away for a better vantage point, Boy dove into the brawl, dodging and turning through the yelling throng. He saw a swatch of gray fabric, spun out of the way of a swinging cudgel, and brought his own new blade down with all his might on the pirate's shoulder.

The fight after that became a short one. Even with two swords, Rum Simon was far outmatched in reach, and was unaccustomed to close-quarters combat. Boy won through a series of five well-placed blows, leaving Simon with a gruesome stomach wound and bloodied teeth.

Later, when Curry commented on Boy's unusual display of ruthlessness, he shrugged it off and said, "I prefer that my opponents not be cowards." And that was the end of it.

* * *

As time passed, he developed a system. It was simplistic and fetched him more than a few strange looks, but it was also extremely efficient, and Boy was fond of nothing if not efficiency.

The method was simply this: _ask around._ Curry scoffed at the idea at first, but even he seemed at least somewhat impressed by its success. Truly talented swordsmen were usually famous; if they were, perhaps, a visiting pirate, their reputation preceded them. If they were a resident of the island, there was usually a sort of community pride about their skill. And any accomplished swordsmen he happened to run into between these investigations were bonus.

Lady Marione du Chapeau was of the second variety—which is to say, she was renowned on Stone Whistler Island for her ability. No matter who Boy asked, the reply was always the same: "Lady du Chapeau, of course!"

It was Curry's idea to arrange an official duel, though. It was surprisingly easy; he sent a letter, and received a dispatch of acquiescence the next day, which was shoved haphazardly under the door of the room where they were staying.

Nobles would most likely attend, and nobles, Curry said, loved to bet, especially when one of their own seemed almost guaranteed to win.

Boy hoped this was true, as the last of their money had been spent on purchasing a suit, which would hopefully make the old man seem somewhat more like a visiting gentleman. The suit was somewhat old and moth-eaten, but it was the best that could be afforded with their meager finances. In any case, with Curry's vocabulary and demeanor, one could almost believe that he _was _nobility.

This thought sparked a number of questions which Boy found himself unable to ignore. And so it came to be, a number of hours before the arranged duel, that he gave voice to the most pressing one.

"What _were _you born into, anyway?"

"Hm?" Curry glanced up momentarily from affixing his saber to his new, ornate belt.

"You weren't a poverty-stricken orphan," Boy carried on conversationally, as the old man went back to his preparations, "unless, perhaps, you picked up a dictionary in a garbage bin somewhere."

Curry shot him a sharp, wry grin. "Sudden inquiries? I shall quench your curiosity, then, lest they distract you during your battle with the lady of culture.

"My family perched in the higher echelons of society, and I was the red-headed stepson. This afforded me little affection from my mother's husband, but allowed me curious amounts of freedom to do as I pleased. Eventually, with no great fuss, I took my leave of their abode and acquired knowledge as took my fancy. And thus you find me."

Boy stared. "…Oh," he said, and grimaced. "That was concise."

"Expecting a tragic tale of ostracism? Here is my pity for you."

"Are you drunk again?"

"Totteringly," said Curry happily. Boy snorted and began to roll his pant up over his shins-recently, a warm spell had hit the island, and its characteristic North Blue weather had melted into massive puddles. The bout was schedule to be held in the central square of the main town, and Boy had no intention of mussing his pants any more than was necessary.

A couple of minutes later, Boy judged that it was around time for them to be gone—though there was no clock in the inn whose room they were renting.

Outside, the air was crisp with cold, splintering over his face as he strode briskly through the streets. He and Curry parted ways before they arrived at the agreed field, as it was necessary that neither should be associated with the other. They entered from different sides of the square, to find it already packed with watchers, who, Boy noticed, were neatly separated by class.

Four yellow-and-black striped posts had been planted to make the corners of a square, and at each corner stood a watchful and rather officious Marine. When he stepped into the square, a great roar of whispers rose from the crowd and washed around him, and though no individual voice was distinct, he caught the general tone of it. Disbelief.

Boy's mouth twisted into a faint, sardonic smile. There would be plenty of time for proving them wrong later.

Of course, that didn't mean the murmur of approval accompanying the lady's arrival didn't irk him a little. The more he looked at Marione du Chapeau, the more he disliked her. No one should rightfully dress in that much white, especially not walking through these dirty streets. Boy suddenly felt…unclean, crouching on the cobbles in his stitched-up black shirt and rolled-up pant legs. The mud from Firibastel's fight still hadn't come out of his clothes, which stank of sea salt and blood. But…

She was wearing a hat. A bonnet, to be specific. And that intrigued Boy enough to test Curry's theory again, whatever his opponent's appearance. Anyway, he wouldn't have backed out in the first place.

There was a man standing by the edge of the square with a bell in one hand. He was watching Boy and the lady expectantly. Marione had already begun to move towards the center, and Boy realized a little bit too late that he was supposed to do the same. He started to trot towards the designated place, and then realized how undignified the gait looked and slowed down to a casual saunter.

By the time he reached Marione, she had already pressed a handkerchief to her nose and was giving him the most distasteful look he had seen since his own home island so many years ago. Boy returned it, calling her distaste and raising to loathing.

The bell rang.

His first blow was meant for her snow-white skirts, just as a warning rip to make sure she knew he was serious.

_Something shifted. _He felt steel scrape on steel-

A moment later, the scimitar was buried between two cobblestones, and the lady was standing only a footstep away from where she had been before. One hand still held the kerchief to her face, while the other was wrapped loosely around the hilt of a slender, straight-bladed sword. The crowd was cheering, and she wasn't moving, and _what had just happened?_

Boy stood, backing away warily. _That was neither speed nor power—she only took a single step to the side, and yet the stab was completely diverted. _

Perhaps she was more formidable than he had thought. Carefully, Boy edged towards the woman, narrowed yellow eyes fixed on her disdainful blue ones.

"That was rude."

Boy paused, still staring. It was odd, because no matter how many times he replayed the words in his head, they sounded the s—

"Egregiously rude, in fact."

Boy didn't know the word, but he of course didn't need to. It was difficult to keep his muscles from tensing in anger, especially with the knowledge that she was looking down on him.

_Save that for later, when you have the advantage… _Boy gritted his teeth, raised his sword, and advanced cautiously. He would remain true to the rational side of his brain for as long as possible, but if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was people laughing at him.

He tried a broad, easy swing—she backed away, easily out of range. Then she was no fool, because there was no question in the difference of their swords' strength. She would have to evade any swipes instead of blocking. Boy tried again, with more killing intent behind the stroke…

It was difficult to describe what happened in that moment, because the movements all flowed together. Marione dodged, again with as little effort as possible, and then spun, now _toward_ Boy, and one well-manicured hand issued the slightest pressure on the back of his neck. It was enough to fracture his balance, and he barely had the presence of mind to twist and fall on his back, ensuring that any blows would land on his chest and stomach.

He wasn't expecting the sword to strike his face. He was still getting over the stinging below his left eye as his body raised itself automatically and backed off for another attack. The outrage started a moment later, when blood started to bead in the wound.

_Unacceptable._

So this was what Curry referred to as "subtlety"…

"Interesting," said Boy.

"Rude," said Lady Marione du Chapeau.

And they fought.

* * *

"Ow," said Boy, tugging at the bandages. Diverting attacks was a handy skill to have, but to come at such a price…

Curry tipped back a bottle of dark and acrid-smelling wine. "Consume alcohol, bratling! It shall make thy woes more agreeable!"

"There's something very wrong with you," Boy mumbled. Around them, the bar partied. This was a dockside bar, well out of range of the upper classes, and pirates had infested every corner of the area. And for some unfathomable reason, they all seemed insanely cheerful.

Like Curry, for instance, although that was more easily explained. He was _very_ drunk, had a book, and there was a crinkled cigarette behind his right ear. And he was rich. There were more than enough beri in the box now to buy alcohol, literature, and a new sword for Boy, though Boy intended to pocket some for later use in a clothing store.

He was just considering what sort of boots he might buy when the door flew open with an ear-splitting _BANG_, unleashing the outside world on the bar's cheering occupants. There was a sudden flood of cursing as flakes of snow howled over mugs of beer.

"Ah," said Curry, putting his feet on the table, "the general climate of this locale has returned to its usual frigid self! How delightful!"

"_He's done it!" _The man was waving a newspaper, out of breath, his face glowing scarlet with the cold. The overall response to this mysterious proclamation was, _"Shut the damn door!"_ but the man ignored this, staggering further into the room until he could hold up the newspaper for all to see.

There was silence. It spread like a wave. Even Curry sat up straight, staring at the headline. Boy didn't bother—someone was bound to read it aloud eventually.

"Gold Roger's traveled the whole Grand Line!"

Another moment's icy silence, and then there was uproar. Chairs were overturned. Beer was splashed. Someone closed the door. Boy stared, feeling somehow that this statement ought to evoke more of a reaction from him.

Curry was standing on his chair. Looking up at him in surprise, Boy had a sinking feeling that no good could possibly come of this (especially since the wine bottle in the old man's hand was still only halfway empty, and there was another one cooling under the table).

_"THIS CALLS FOR A SONG!" _roared Curry, and he was so loud that the words seemed to blot out all other noise for a moment. In one corner, the haphazard fiddle-and-whistle band that had been playing stopped rioting and stared at Curry, mouths still agape for yelling.

_"LEGEND!" _the old man yelled, though there was really no need for it, as his first outburst had quieted almost the entirety of the bar. And then he sat down.

"What," said Boy, once it seemed safe to uncover his ears, "was _that_?"

"I was simply instructing them as to which song they might entertain us with," the old man replied, and began to systematically empty his bottle.

Boy rolled his eyes and turned to one side in his chair, watching the band. They seemed to be playing the same refrain several times over, as though they'd forgotten the tune. Then, once the crowd seemed to have picked up on what song it was that they were supposed to be singing exactly, they began.

Boy listened, rather bemusedly, wondering why Curry wasn't singing along; he had, after all, requested the song.

"Rather dark, isn't it?" he asked, trying to make out the melody over the drunken choir.

"Whatever might you mean by that?"

"Most pirate songs are a bit rowdier than this, aren't they?"

_"…Each promise that they didn't keep_

_ Is counted on the Blues."_

Curry shrugged expansively. "Ah, but this one is a little bizarre! How engrossing, the infinitude of mysteries about it, the origin at the crux!"

"Make sense, old man."

Curry stretched his mouth to one side, his multitude of wrinkles contorting as he tried to regain something of his sobriety. Then, seeming to have come to a steadier mental platform, he sniffed loudly and spoke again.

"The song named 'Legend' is not what one might call a perennial favorite. Nor is it as well-known as others I might name. It is older than I, which out to give you an inkling of its age. Every century or so, a fresh verse is added to the end."

_"They say the ships that carry men_

_ Straight into death and…"_

"Who _by_? Surely they don't simply come into being."

"Do you consider me an endless fount of knowledge? Far from it. Go back to your wondering, urchin."

"I _am _approximately sixteen, you know," Boy muttered, allowing a bit of a sullen tone to creep into his voice. Curry was far too drunk to care how his student sounded.

_"…pirate's hearts like diamond rings,_

_ And every thought of guilty things_

_ Is counted on their—"_

"And what's with all this 'counted on the Blues' nonsense?" Boy interjected over the singing. "There's only four of them. What does it mean by 'counting on them'?"

"Ask me not to make sense of madmen's words, for I know naught _of_ them."

"As a dog knoweth not his own smell," Boy said, faithfully quoting one of Curry's favorite books. He'd learned to read from that one, and knew some of the lines by heart (though not by his own volition).

If Curry replied to this, his words were drowned out by the boisterous last verse.

_"They say this war is o'er and done_

_ And though the bastards think they've won_

_ We'll have the ones that turn and run_

_ And count them on our swords!"_

At this last line, every mug in the place was raised in the air and almost every set of lungs expanded for a rousing pirate war cry. Boy, of course, did not join in, though Curry let loose an off-puttingly vicious _ARR_, which caused anyone within five feet of him to flinch. Then there was a great cheering and toasting of glasses, and it seemed to be agreed that this was a good evening for Roger to have finished circumnavigating the world.

Perhaps an hour later, they made their way back to the boat; Curry staggering and Boy walking ahead with his hands in his pockets. At times like this, though he despised the stuff, Boy couldn't help thinking how convenient the warming effects of alcohol might be.

"That song is still vexing me," he told Curry, turning his head a little to glare at the old man over his shoulder. "It seems pointless, and yet you seem so ardent about its 'mystery'. I don't understand."

"Then there seems to me no purpose in attempting an explanation," Curry retorted, the words appearing in silver puffs. He raised his current bottle to his lips as though to drink, and then paused suddenly in his tracks, staring up at the sky. Boy paused as well, trying not to shiver and wondering whether he'd ever be accustomed to his teacher's random bouts of madness.

After a moment, Curry grinned and strode forward again, leaving Boy standing there for a moment, perplexed.

"Hey, old man! What was that all about?"  
Curry chortled into one gloved hand, wiping his alcohol-reddened nose on the threadbare cloth. "Ah, nothing of portent."

Boy glared. Curry stared back, gray eyes watering with the whiskey and the cold. After a moment, he spoke again.

"Simply this: there might, theoretically, be a forgotten verse of said song that could, perhaps, be of interest to you…"

Boy grimaced, wrinkling his nose at the old man's breath. "You're drunk, old man. Nice try."

"Oh, really?" Curry's eyes gleamed in the freezing darkness. He stopped again, planted his legs a shoulder-width apart, and threw back his head, belting out the now-familiar tune in a somewhat cracked baritone. What he lacked in melodiousness he made up for in enthusiasm; the song echoed among the masts and resonated in the hulls of docked ships.

_"They say who takes the great black blade _

_ From where its master's corpse was laid_

_ Shall find the world in arms arrayed_

_ And count ten thousand foes."_

There was silence. The wind whistled. Somewhere in the street behind them, a bouncer threw an unwelcome customer into the snow. The teenager and his mentor stood on the pier, looking at one another.

"Takes…the what?" Boy managed, strangely breathless. He felt as though something had been kindled inside him.

"I know nothing else," said Curry enigmatically, and then raised his hands in a peaceful gesture as Boy opened his mouth to ask more aggressively. "I speak truth! Any further research you plan to do concerning said blade shall have no source in my considerable mental archives."

"Whatever, old man," Boy snapped, and strode towards the boat, a misty silhouette through the flurrying snow.

_The great black blade. _

He was curious.

* * *

_ Across North Blue, Marine dispatches told each island's outpost to be alert for a young man, as yet unnamed, with yellow eyes. Said dispatches were sent with an impressive list of the boy's defeats throughout North Blue, and warned against incautious action. _

We would be unsurprised, should he turn pirate in later years. Keep your eyes open.

* * *

**Soon...SOON there will be canon! **

**Let's see...my thoughts on the chapter... Kinda wordy in places, and I should probably have written the rest of his fight with Marione, since it was, you know, focused on the talent this fic is _named after_. But I didn't like her. She was boring. So.**

**I got my sister to set Legend to a tune so that I could put it in here as a song without feeling too weird about it. She did a fabulous job, too! Pity it's not on Youtube or something. 'Course, that would be weird. **

**I'm kind of annoyed by how the OCs in this chapter turned out. I felt like they could have been a little bit more impersonal...though I couldn't have resisted with Rum Simon even if I'd tried. He's too addictive to draw. Pity he's just a background kill on the road to becoming the greatest swordsman ever. **

**Anyway.  
**

**REVIEW REPLIES _(Where do they all come from?)_  
**

**Jflower: Does thirty-nine sound good to you? :D Anyway, yeah, I'd never pass up a chance to include the rest of the Shichibukai (except Crocodile, because I don't know whether he used to be a girl or not...stupid Ivankov...)**

**Roroanne: Well, I've had two years of it so far, and I'm hoping for two more! Thank you! And I can't wait for Boy to get a real name either-he's gone far too long without one. **

**Checking daily? I hope not-it must have been disappointing. How long has it been, a month or something?**

**Phalanx: You make me happy. :) Thank you! I should really include more moments like the penguin island-this is One Piece, after all. I feel I'm letting Oda down or something. Not that he reads this...that wouldn't be cool...**

**As4mi: Masterpiece? Shut up! That doesn't make me happy, you jerk! *insert squealing and blushing here*  
**

**...I mean, thank you! I'm glad you like it-feel free to review in German, as it would be good practice for me without class to keep my skills sharpened. XD Same goes out to my other reviewers from Deutschland.**

**AttilaTheBunny: That _is _crazy. Though the number ought to have gone down by now, ne? You slacker, though...shame on you for reading this when you could be doing work. **

**Curry and the amazing naked run eureka bath moment! You make me laugh. Guffaw! Thank you and farewell! (_Exeunt stage right, pursued by bear_)**

**TorThaSuper: Well done! If anyone else got it, they haven't reported back yet, so grand prize is yours. 'Course, I've nothing to give you...**

**...anyway. Thank you! As you can see, Boy's off his losing streak now-though he might start it up again if you don't explain that mysterious review of yours. What say you to that? XD**

**Rom Nom Nom: Thanks! Most excellent...I love to be unpredictable (if that's a good thing). And here's your new chapter, so I hope it was up to standard!**

**Rose: Whoa...high praise indeed-thanks very much. I'm sure you could find a better, though-there are authors out there I could never hope to measure up to.**

**QuietInsomniac: Well, everyone could use a little more Mihawk. By the way, you've won a special place by validating the creditability of this story-I worry about it rather a lot. Thank _you _for posting your review!**

**Sir Gar the Bold: Thanks, and no worries! You only need review if you feel like it (though I do love them so). Hope it didn't feel too long waiting for this one...**

**dadeedoo: Ah, that's reassuring...I always have trouble with summaries. Thanks for critique and I'll try to keep up the work!**

**Cat: Thanks! Haha...aheh...um... Does this count as "soon"?**

**Aoihand: And you...are a superbeast. What are you doing here, reviewing on my humble story?**

**Okay, just kidding! Mostly. *ahem* I'm happy you decided to drop in and read, and I hope you go on reading, if I update within the century. It's nice to hear someone likes the wordiness of the story. Thank you for your praise, and keep on being awesome!**

**All Nightmare Long: You're welcome, and thank you too-for reviewing. :) I know, I'm so excited to reach canon! I can finally stop making this up as I go along! For the most part, anyway...**

**Lunar Runaway Hiri: Ah. The chapter with the random girl was a parody bit, which I wrote very badly for kicks and giggles. _(EDIT: By the way, again, that chapter no longer exists...see, the confusion...?) _I think it's also called an "omake"? Verification...? Anyway, the more words in one's vocabulary, the better (though I wish more people thought so). So huzzah! Though I do tend to make them up for Curry's dialogue. It's more fun that way. Can you believe my computer wouldn't accept "totteringly"? Honestly!**

***insert rant here***

**Orange205: Thanks! Yeeesss, of all the things to happen in this fic, Boy getting his name and finding the Kokutou Yoru are my two big goals. I'm so eager to turn him into the Mihawk we all know and love.  
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I predicted that this fic would be about twelve chapters long when I began. I'm starting to doubt that. Why are my estimates always wrong?**


	9. Part IX: Style

**Why did I pick something as ambitious as this? He's freakin' _Mihawk_. There are tons of people out there with idea waaaaay better than this one. I should have done someone a bit less important...hng...**

** ...Angsty time is over. _Ohmigosh Chapter 592! I was right I was right! _Well, I mean, not just me, but I was one of the people thinking that, so allow me my moment's celebration. XD One Piece just keeps getting better. It's just too awesome for words; I've never found a manga this long and this good. And what's in the newspaper that everyone's so worked up about, dangit? Also! Word of Oda says Mihawk is 41, so that's settled. Thanks, Solo Loco Ellington-Rose!  
**

**But I can't believe OneManga is going down. That's just not cool. I mean, the licensed manga, alright, I can understand that. But other things, like The Breaker and Jackals...I can't get those in the US! I'd really like to be able to read them, thank you very much.**

**This chapter was an excuse for me to make up pirate names. Enjoy.**

**(Also, keep an eye out for a tip of the hat to Aoihand's True Immortality...)  
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Part IX: Style

_"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius." -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930), (Sherlock Holmes) Valley of Fear, 1915 _

Lieutenant Pash of the World Government Marines looked after the cells. Some might have told you it was practically his life, but others that knew him better would have assured you that it was nothing of the sort. In fact, his life was devoted to something else entirely…

It was thanks to this devotion that the Lieutenant spent his time in the mess hall without a chair, doing squats instead as he ate. It was also the cause of his tendency to run everywhere and do push-ups whenever he was told to be at ease. The top brass had learned early on that putting him on cleaning duty only made things worse—he relished the opportunity. Therefore, they gave him the task of looking after the cells instead, which kept him out of the way and made him somewhat bored, which was about as close as it came to punishment for the man.

On this particular day, the tiny stone space underneath the Marine base was cold enough to make skin crack, and smelled of blood and tea…

* * *

"You really should have some," said the Marine, in a deep voice that was just a little bit louder than was comfortable. Boy stared bleakly up at him, wondering exactly what kind of Marine offered his prisoners tea.

"I don't like tea," he said, though he'd never had any. He didn't trust the man not to poison it—who knew what kind of things happened to captives under Marine custody?

"What about your grandpa, then?"

"He only drinks alcohol," said Boy, letting the "grandpa" slide for the moment. "And I don't think he'd be able to drink tea in any case, because _he is asleep_."

The guard deflated a bit, and then brightened. "In that case, we might wake him up! Tea provides serenity, and serenity is the key to 'strength'!"

Boy noticed the quotation marks, and they unnerved him rather. However, he wasn't inclined to comment on them, and instead devoted his energy to breathing into his cupped hands in a futile attempt to warm them. His head throbbed.

There were several reasons that the room smelled of blood.

One was that Boy's shirt was sticky and stiff with the stuff after he'd executed a hare. Before they had reached the island's main town, he'd gone hunting and seen the magnificent white creature crouching on the crunchy blanket of snow. It had been faster than a rabbit and more vicious too, but he'd managed to trap it in the end. Then he'd found that cutting the jugular was a lot messier on larger creatures.

The second reason, though it contributed less, was that his knuckles were beaded all over with blood. If Curry's hands had chapped this badly under his gloves, he hadn't shown any sign of it, but Boy was learning fast that his skin did not deal well with the cold.

And thirdly, the stuff was still crusting on his forehead where the madman now offering him tea had bashed him with a truncheon. He'd only been following the Marine because he walked like a swordsman, and had gotten distracted when Curry ran past carrying a load of fish over one shoulder. Boy had followed—on principle, as usual.

This had turned out to be not so much of a good idea, because, as he discovered later, Curry had stolen said fish. Boy would have asked Curry exactly why he would resort to stealing food, but by the time he realized what was going on, something heavy had crashed into his temple, effectively removing him from consciousness.

And when he'd awoken, he was lying on freezing stone, while the Marine outside the cell lifted weights and did crunches. Even Boy, who considered himself something of an expert in excruciating amounts of exercise, had been nonplussed to say the least. The man was totally off his head.

But he did make very aromatic tea. And it was just sitting there, steaming and looking warm. And his fingertips were starting to go numb.

"I've changed my mind," he said, reaching through the bars of the cell. "Hand me that cup."

"You _should _say please!" boomed the Marine, but handed it over anyway as though the thunderous response had been nothing but a mild reprimand. Ears ringing, Boy took the teacup in tingling hands, almost dropping it as it seared his fingers.

For a while, there was silence. Almost absentmindedly, as someone else might tap their foot, the Marine began to lift weights again. He seemed distracted, so Boy took this opportunity to look the man over; there were conclusions that could be drawn fairly certainly just from someone's appearance.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was the heavy broadsword, hanging from a belt that the Marine had looped over the corner of his chair. It was double-sided and, to the casual eye, well-made, though there was no way of knowing whether there were flaws underneath the scabbard. Disregarding quality, it was obviously a fearsome weapon, and weightier than any Boy had seen thus far. Anyone who could use that blade deftly would have to be powerful indeed.

Which lead Boy to his second observation: if this man was a swordsman, his style was almost certainly focused entirely on strength. This was most likely the reason for his almost unrealistic muscle mass and the quotes around the word when he'd used it earlier.

Third: there were scars on his left cheek, which may or may not have been from a battle. Boy assumed that they were caused by a blade, but there was no way of knowing.

Last-minute points of interest: very large, dark eyebrows. Intense black eyes. Official Marine hat worn very straight, pointing to the front.

A man to be reckoned with. Boy wondered whether challenging him was a good idea. And then, scowling, he cuffed himself over the ear for the thought. Whether he won or not, though the former was always preferable, he had to fight. It was the obligation he'd set for himself at the beginning of the journey, and he would never forgive himself for passing up such an opportunity.

Boy stood, intending to make good his private vow, and then sat again sharply as his head throbbed. He pressed two fingers to one pounding temple, grimacing and trying to breathe properly and hating the icy North Blue air. If he had any intentions of doing battle, he needed rest.

On the other hand, the only space currently open for him was the floor, as Curry occupied the only piece of furniture in the cell—a narrow wooden bench in one corner. Boy considered dislodging the old man, but thought better of it almost immediately. Curry had been known to punch reflexively and rather brutally upon waking.

He settled for the floor.

* * *

_They fought._

_Boy had sensed (vague word, ambiguous) something different about Lady Marione du Chapeau before the bout had even begun, but he was still working to pin down what exactly it was. He'd fought extremely skilled swordsmen (and women) before, most with far greater power and speed than this one. And he'd _never _encountered one wearing skirts. But this was…new._

_Every move he made went awry. Every blow was diverted and every thrust missed its mark, sometimes by a hair's breadth. She wasn't dodging, unless one counted taking a step to either side as such. The movements were so simple, the technique so gentle…it seemed impossible that such a school of fighting could possibly counter his own._

_And yet…and yet…_

_And yet she was still standing there, condescension carved onto her features, staring down her nose with the expression of one about to crush an ant beneath their heel. Boy fought to keep the anger down, well aware of how badly the emotion could wreck his chances of winning. But if he couldn't catch her technique, it was only a matter of time before his outrage broke loose._

_She opened her mouth to speak. Out of the question—every word the woman said added fuel to the fire. Boy attacked again, eyes focused to catch each movement—_

_

* * *

_He woke up in total darkness, gasping for breath, and felt his lungs cramp as though he'd been immersed in ice water. Slowly, hands cupped over his mouth, Boy tried valiantly to calm his breath. On the third exhale, his lungs seemed to shudder for a moment. Inhale—the shaking spread to his back, shoulders, arms. Exhale—his teeth chattered, the muscles in his jaw jerking spasmodically. Air puffed from his nostrils in irregular gouts of steam.

Shivering uncontrollably now, he pulled his knees up to his chin (they were uncomfortably angular) and curled himself in around them. Jamming his near-numb fingers under his bent knees, Boy scooted backwards until he came up against a wall. Then he closed his eyes, breathed as deeply as he could, and waited for the shivering to recede.

Eventually, he sank into an uneasy sort of doze, waiting for sunlight to enter the cell again and listening to Curry mumbling in his sleep. By the time gray, pre-dawn light had begun to glow beyond the tiny barred window, the old man was still not awake, but every so often, he would let loose a nastily wet cough and try to roll over on the bench.

Boy usually tried to steady Curry when this happened, because the geezer was more than likely to break his own nose (again) if he fell face first onto stone. And then he would break Boy's nose for not waking him earlier.

After what may have been five minutes or another hour, Boy heard footsteps booming on the stairs and wondered whether the arriving Marine had come to issue his punishment. Eyes fixed on the door, he crouched in one corner of the cell and waited, ready to bolt should any mention of the death sentence arise.

…Well, they probably wouldn't kill you for stealing fish. But you never knew.

It was the swordsman from yesterday, but this time there was another Marine, shorter but no less unnerving in appearance. He couldn't be much older than forty, but he walked with a limp, and one eye was masked by a broad circle of glass, which he squinted through with one calculating slate blue eye. Boy stared back at him, refusing to be perturbed—despite the pistol holstered at the man's belt.

After a tense moment of silence, the Marine reached into one pocket without breaking eye contact and unfolded a worn piece of paper. Boy barely managed to catch the tiny, printed words _Official Dispatch _before the swordsman took it, enormous hands obscuring the seal.

"It's him," said the man with the glass over his eye, in a dry monotone that grated at Boy's nerves. He was about to comment on this when the Marine turned his back on the cell, saluted his comrade, and headed towards the door, saying, "Give him the usual, Lieutenant Pash, then let him loose. He hasn't come after any of ours yet, but if he does…"

The sentence hung, ominously unfinished, in the air as Lieutenant Pash stared, frowning, at the piece of paper. Boy waited impatiently for whatever "the usual" was, and, when nothing was forthcoming, decided to take matters into his own hands.

"What does that say about me?" he asked.

"What?" Pash was clearly preoccupied, his immense eyebrows meeting in the middle to form an impressive faux uni-brow.

"The, ah, Official Dispatch," said Boy, gesturing helpfully to the paper. The Marine stared at him for a moment, and if Boy didn't know better, he would have said Pash looked almost accusing…

The paper flapped in front of his face. "Did you defeat 'Running Blade' Mank?"

"Maybe," said Boy, taken aback by the deep-voiced roar. "Was he the one with the scarf?"

Pash paused, thinking, and then held up one calloused finger. _Wait a moment. _Then he vanished beyond Boy's limited range of vision. There were sounds of rummaging, and then a faint _"a-ha!" _And when he reappeared, he was carrying a leather pack, which rustled as he opened it. Boy watched, bemused, as the Lieutenant riffled through what seemed to be a stack of paper several inches thick. After a couple seconds of this, he seemed to find what he was looking for, and pulled it out with a flourish.

Boy looked at the bounty poster, frowned, and said, "He's not wearing it here. But that's him. He has the tattoo."

"What weapon does he use?"

Boy wondered what kind of bizarre interrogation this was. "Something nasty and spiked on a rope. I did tell him it wasn't technically swordsmanship, but he was a loathsome idiot, so." He allowed himself a satisfied smirk. "I beat him."

That poster vanished, and Pash went back to the dispatch, frowning. "'Steel-Feather' Hayato?"

"Yes."

Another poster, in worse condition than the first but still legible. Boy nodded in recognition, and this time he checked the bounty at the bottom. _Ten thousand beri. _

"You should update this," he said conversationally. "I believe his head's worth at least twenty thousand by now."

"That is not my job." Steel-Feather Hayato vanished. "What about 'Lady Homicide' Solar Fonta?"

"Her name amused me. She attacked me. I won, but she nearly took out an eye." This was wearing thin. "Look, what is this about?"

No answer. Another poster—twenty-five thousand beri. Boy had no interest in turning in criminals for money, but he couldn't help wondering how many meals that bounty could have fetched.

"She bested dojo masters all around East Blue and was the captain of a mercenary crew in South Blue after killing their previous leader, whose bounty was almost twice as much as her current one," Pash reeled off. Boy's head rang—even the man's speaking voice was far too loud.

And then the words sank into his brain, and something clicked. Boy craned his head at the bars, staring at the pack full of wanted posters. "Are those—"

Another poster. He recognized the face and nodded hurriedly. "Yes, I know him. Are all of these—" Yet another. "Yes, that's right, but—" Another. "Hans Bronco, yes, but _look_—"

"How old are you?"

"What? I don't know! Sixteen, seventeen, something. But I need to know—"

"How long have you been using a sword?"

"Somewhere between two and four years," Boy answered, too bewildered and vexed to answer accurately. Days on the sea tended to flow together.

_BANG! _The door shook on its hinges as Pash's hands slammed against the bars. Boy dodged backwards, eyes wide, ready for a fight.

"This is _insane_," the Marine rumbled.

"Whatever you say," said Boy warily, wondering whether those hands could bend iron. "Marine man, are all those bounty posters of swordsm—"

"You must fight me," said Pash, far too loudly for the confines of the tiny room. Boy winced, his head pulsing with the noise.

"Maybe after my cracked skull heals, hm?" he snapped, wondering whether he'd ever get an answer.

"And who gave you _that _injury?" Pash boomed, eyes gleaming with misguided interest. Boy stared, momentarily nonplussed by the man's idiocy.

"_You _did, moron! You hit me over the head when I was running after Curry!" He gestured to the sleeping man. "That's why we're _down _here in this freezing cesspit, remember? I refuse to go into battle with a headache!"

Alright, well, that last part was more than a little childish. After all, he'd fought wounded many times before this and survived. But he had a feeling that if he acquiesced now, Pash would be far too engrossed in the prospect of battle to answer any questions. Currently, the Marine seemed to be considering Boy's words very carefully—this was probably as deep in thought as he would ever be in his life, Boy thought acidly, and wondered if Pash would even hear him if he asked now.

"So, are all the bounty posters in that bag for swordsmen?" There. He'd actually managed to voice it. Now it was just a matter of Pash having heard—

"Yes."

Boy wanted that pack now.

A lot.

Then a more important question occurred to him, and he said (very quickly, in case he was interrupted again), "Is the greatest swordsman in the world in there?"  
"Sure." He was still thinking, but apparently Pash's mouth kept working even when his mind was somewhere else. Both hands riffled once more through the pack, and a second later Boy reached through the bars for the proffered poster. He stared, hands shaking with excitement, at the face on the ancient, tattered paper, and the lengthy number printed below.

"A woman?" Bright blue eyes stared up at him, but the name below the picture was hardly legible…the first letter looked like an F, but…

There was another paper waving at the bars. Boy stared at it, frowning, and then took that as well. It looked somewhat more recent than the first, and the name, though patchy, was clear. _"Phantom" Isaac. _Boy stared at it, then at the other, and then back again. And then he looked at the window, where a third paper was waiting.

Once again, a bit newer, fewer rips, a fresher image. Boy wondered for a moment what on earth Pash was doing, handing him three of these, but then there was a fourth, and a fifth… Surely these weren't simply "some of the best". Even this imbecilic Marine wouldn't misunderstand that. So, what…

Boy stared at the posters, at the increasing quality, at the change from hand-written to printed. And he understood.

All of them were dead. These were the _former _best, the ones even Curry had never heard of.

These posters weren't even in circulation anymore.

At this point, as the floor seemed to fall sharply out from under Boy's feet and all traces of elation were replaced by chilly sullenness, Pash came to a conclusion. Boy, now consumed with generally despising the world, barely even registered the door opening, and certainly didn't hear the Marine's speech about not running off. He was in his own private world of disgust when he arrived at the base's infirmary, and gave one of the nurses such a hateful glare that she promptly slapped him.

After that, he just lay in one of the beds and stared at the ceiling as blood was scrubbed from his forehead and a doctor nearby listened with concern to Curry's worsening cough. Pash had taken back the five posters he'd given out, but Boy was determined now to acquire the contents of that bag by any means possible.  
He wondered if Pash would allow him to make a wager on their match…

* * *

Curry woke up the next morning, and immediately requested a book and some sort of alcohol—"for his health". Boy wasn't sure how anything so vile could possible be good for one's health, but made no comment. Curry got a green glass bottle of cheap whiskey, which he downed in a second before standing and proclaiming that he was quite ready to leave.

The old man was halfway out the door when he seemed to remember Boy's existence, and turned back to snap his fingers impatiently.

"The time, Boy, you waste it! Come swiftly!"

Boy didn't move. Curry turned completely, one eyebrow raised in irritated inquiry.

"I made a deal," said Boy. "There's someone I must fight before we leave."

"Nonsense!"

Boy scowled. "You can have your 'nonsense'—I made a deal and there's something I want out of it."

Curry stared for a moment, and then shrugged brusquely. "Very well. As you wish, then. So long as money is made of it and rum is bought with said money."

"Rum?" Boy repeated, frowning. "Isn't it usually beer or whiskey?"  
"I've had a change of taste," Curry replied, returning to settle on his bed once more. "The whiskey here is quite horrible."  
"It's _all _horrible," said Boy, glaring at the empty green bottle.

"So say you."

"So say I."  
They left it at that. Curry was still sick, after all, and was fast asleep within the hour. Once he was quite sure the old man was dead to the world, Boy crept softly out the door, intending to find his current sword and Lieutenant Pash. He was promptly caught within five feet of the door by a nurse, who hustled him immediately back to the imprisonment of the infirmary.

Boy was not tired, but decided to save himself the haranguing that would surely follow if he tried to leave again. He crossed his legs and pulled the pillow down over his eyes, restless and helpless and wondering whether he ought just to break out and forget the bag of wanted posters. After all, the current greatest swordsman in the world might not even be in there.

He fell asleep tossing options back and forth in his head.

* * *

_The woman was maddening._

_He was almost certain he'd spotted her trick by now…though he had yet to understand how she did it. She was infuriatingly delicate in her use of a sword, and used movements so small and gentle that they seemed useless—until they set his own blade's aim off by the millimeter needed for her to avoid the blow. Incensed, he tried overpowering her, as his own strength was surely superior to hers…_

_And _yet_, each attempt was as ineffectual as the last, and her face—whenever he caught a glimpse of it—grew steadily more contemptuous as they fought._

_It was at this point that the realization of his total helplessness dawned on him. He had absolutely no advantage in this match, and now they both knew it, as well as the people watching. Face burning in the chilled morning air, Boy retreated cautiously, trying to gather his experience, racking his brains for any trick he might use against this new foe.

* * *

_

"GENIUS BOY!"

"_Haaah!" _Boy snapped upright, eyes wide, his right hand moving frantically from his left hip to his throat and back again. Neither his knife nor his sword were present, but there seemed to be no immediate danger—unless, that is, one counted the immense Marine looming over him now.

"Has your head healed?" Pash asked, in a tone which suggested he was trying to speak quietly…and failing.

"I'm…not sure," Boy grunted, putting one hand to the lump on the back of his skull. "You may have split it open again." He hesitated for a moment, considering. "Did you call me…'genius boy'?"

"INDEED!"

"Ngh!" said Boy, who wasn't feeling particularly coherent. "Stop that! That is _not _my name."

"Then what is?" Again, the booming stage whisper.

"For the moment, I'm called…"

He trailed off, thinking hard. He'd become more and more reluctant to introduce himself using the name Curry had given him, especially as he grew older. And now that the Marines were keeping their eyes on him, he found himself quite displeased at the thought of seeing a bounty poster labeling him as "Boy". He considered momentarily thinking of a new name on the spot, but something told him he would regret it later.

"Yes?" Pash looked impatient, intense black eyes fixed on Boy's face.

He resisted the urge to punch the Marine in the nose, but ignored this and instead swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, straightening slowly. "For the moment, I don't have one. But as soon as I find one, the whole world's going to know, so keep a look out." He surveyed the room pointedly. "Sword?"

It took Pash a while to recover from the disappointment, but after that it was only a matter of minutes for them to retrieve Boy's knife and sword from the confiscation room.

He was more than a little fond of this sword, which had been neither cheap nor easy to find. It was an East Blue sword, much like Firibastel's, with a gracefully curved blade and intricately-bound hilt. The odd thing about it, which he'd never sensed before in any other weapon, was that it seemed to have a personality. He'd picked up on the concept as blades as living things, but the nameless blade they'd found in yet another ancient sword shop seemed…different. Whenever Boy held it, the sense of amiable servitude from the sword was astonishingly strong.

This was probably why he couldn't help muttering an apology to it as he lifted it from the floor of the confiscation room, sending a couple of explosives clattering to the floor. A fleeting feeling of relief pulsed through him, and Boy smiled thinly as he fastened the scabbard to his belt.

Pash didn't seem to notice this exchange, but instead had already drawn his own broadsword and seemed more than prepared to fight. He would probably have attacked then and there, had it not been for his Marine code of honor and Boy's hasty suggestion that they take the fight outside.

He began to regret this even as he walked through the doors. He'd bought boots several islands ago, but the cold seemed to seep through the cobbled street into the soles of his feet. He shivered, kicking one foot and then the other as he walked, trying to keep his blood moving.

Outside the Marine base there were walls. Boy frowned up at them, disliking the enclosed nature of the courtyard. He wondered vaguely whether there was any swordsmanship technique that would effectively…remove them. He despised close spaces.

"Nameless one!"

Oh. Yes. The task at hand. Boy took one deep, deep breath, then turned his attention on Pash and drew the unnamed sword slowly from its lacquered scabbard.

"Fine, then."

The earth was hard as iron under his feet, the sky above him broad and gray and still. Boy adjusted his stance slowly, easing one heel across the frozen ground, trying to concentrate on the foe and observe his surroundings at the same time. The latter, of course, was abandoned in favor of the former the moment Pash attacked.

Boy was too experienced by now to be taken unaware by the sudden offensive, but as he raised his sword to block the altogether-too-obvious overhead swing, a sharp prickle of warning burned at the base of his skull. Boy jerked clumsily to one side, making a heartbeat decision to try for a shot under the Marine's guard instead—

-the tip of his sword was caught by the massive broadsword, and Boy found himself gripping the hilt fiercely as it shook in his hands. There was a rasping _sssshunk_ to his left, and as he dodged backward, Boy saw that Pash's sword was now buried halfway in the dirt of the courtyard floor. Eyes still on his opponent, the young man tapped sharply at the ground with his own blade, making it ring faintly. Impenetrable.

"Good trick," he murmured, and swept one foot softly to the side—a millisecond later, steel whirred past his chest. Boy, smiling tightly now, retreated a little further, pleased by his use of Lady du Chapeau's specialty. Then heat touched his abdomen, and he glanced down to see a crimson gleaming through a rent in his shirt. _Another attack_—he cursed inwardly and tried a feint—_deep, but not deep enough_—clearly, he hadn't quite mastered the art yet.

More importantly, if he couldn't be effectively subtle in the face of such brutish strength, there was no guarantee that he would win, or even survive. There had to be something more to it, something he was missing…

* * *

_Nothing came to mind. Frustrated and bewildered, Boy let his guard relax for a moment—and immediately returned to alertness as an elegant length of cold steel buried itself in his side. Boy bit down a yell of pain, slashing wildly at the white-clothed woman. His sword met only air, as she was once more out of range. Blood spilled from the puncture wound, and his left eye began to water profusely (something his body tended to after serious injury). _

_She could have killed him then and there. Instead, she chose to stick him in a non-fatal area…good sportsmanship, or was she toying with him? _

_There was no time to consider. Boy swayed away from a second thrust, tried to retaliate, and barely caught the flash of metal as a thin red line scrawled down his arm. Around him, well-mannered laughs echoed from the crowd, and a voice that bore a suspicious resemblance to Curry's cried, "In the kidneys, Madame, in the kidneys!"_

_The beauty of fighting so many talented swordsmen was that once he had picked up the knack of one useful skill, he could implement it in his next battle. The only problem with this strategy came with an opponent like this; nothing seemed effective against the noblewoman's invincible style. Boy knew his own form was excellent (modesty was not his forte), and he knew his strength was remarkable for his age, but somehow this was beyond him…

* * *

_

Boy slowed his movements to a near-suicidal pace, forcing his muscles to recall the agonizing control needed for those restrained redirections of force. _Soft, now… _

Pash's sword swept over his head, and Boy thought he saw a spray of black hair flutter in the wake of the blade. _Did he just-? _

""That—" He dodged, tried to move into a blind spot, and failed. "That's my _hair_!"

"_Hm!_" Clearly, the Marine had no time for talking. Boy, who was beginning to tire of evasive maneuvering, wondered whether Pash would ever show fatigue. Then he remembered—"strength", the ultimate pinnacle of swordsmanship—and swore under his breath. The man's stamina had to be ludicrously high.

The one comforting thing about Pash's method was that his blows were rhythmic and left wide openings for any adversary bold enough to face the repercussions. Said repercussions included the possibilities of beheading, hand-to-hand combat, and being crushed to death, none of which Boy was at all interested in experiencing. His best option was probably to attack from behind, but even with his speed, Pash's range was too broad for that kind of tactic.

* * *

_Air moved. He ducked away, narrowly evading a jab that would almost certainly have disabled his right eye. He was expecting the second stab, and told his body to dodge—_

_Completely autonomously, his hand raised, tipped the blade, and flicked Marione's sword to one side. There was the briefest flash of shock on her face, then she was gone, and he was once again off-course and disoriented. But in his chest, a little flare of astonished exhilaration sparked up. _

What was _that? He sidestepped, almost without noticing, his mind elsewhere. _Don't think, don't think about it, but keep it under your control... _His muscles hadn't been working for him through these years of learning swordsmanship, not truly. He'd been good, fast, powerful. Whatever, it wasn't enough. Boy took a deep breath, trying to combine reflex and finesse. It was like mixing oil and water—conscious control and unconscious movement._

_He tried mimicking her style, watching every twitch of muscle, every faint flexion; never before had he observed so many minute details at once… However, despite the fact that she remained unwounded, Marione's attempts to attack him had begun to fail more often than not. A brief lull in the battle allowed her another glimpse of her face, which was tight with restrained frustration._

"_You look a bit sour," he told her, and took a step forward—_

_-effectively impaling himself as steel slid between his ribs. He barely had time to gasp before she pulled the slash with a visible effort. It wasn't deep, as her blade hadn't been designed for heavy work, but neither was it at all shallow. He began to bleed afresh, his clothes now thickly wet with the stuff._

_Another flash of movement, and he barely managed to counter a strike to his throat, which would have killed him without intervention. His eyes met hers, and saw murder. Boy swore aloud, wondering vaguely how long it would take him to become delirious from blood loss.

* * *

_

The broadsword whistled past him, and Boy fell backward, left hand instinctively outstretched as a second swing came back around the other way. He saw blood fly, but there was no pain and right now his focus was rolling between Pash's legs (grateful, now, for his own lean stature), and leaping to his feet fast enough to deal a blow to the Marine's back.

He felt the solidness of the strike, but didn't wait to celebrate. As Pash, roaring, did his level best to return the gash tenfold, Boy decided to exercise his footwork and observe from a safe distance. It wasn't running away, he told himself. It was a strategic retreat. And it allowed him a good look at Pash's attitude towards swordwork.

Another lesson from his North Blue battles: a warrior's walk and maybe even his hat were good enough for judging their skill, but mastering said skill was nowhere near as easy. Often, the basis of their swordsmanship was unattainable without the correct outlook—a certain "belief" that carried through from the mind to the body.

When Lieutenant Pash attacked, there was a sense to his strikes that he was aiming to cut _through _whatever he aimed at, focusing beyond his target. Boy tried to summon that up inside himself, fixing both hands around his sword's hilt for a more powerful swing.

It was then that he noticed that his left hand was slick with blood and the tip of his left ring finger was missing. Still, no pain yet. Casting the electric pangs of fear aside for the moment, Boy shot his most devilish grin at his opponent and surged forward.

* * *

_Emotion seemed to have crippled Marione's cool impenetrability. Boy, still trying to incorporate subtlety naturally into his own style, was grateful for this one advantage, and did his best to exploit the one crack in her façade. He'd begun to catch onto the timing for diverting another blade, and exercised this newfound power as often as possible. Blood roared in his ears, but the watching nobles were still vaguely audible._

_Oh, they weren't laughing now, not even as he left a scattering of red drops wherever the bout took him. Uneasy mutters arose around the fencing figures, and Boy felt hairs prickle along the nape of his neck. Something was happening here, something unexpected. It seemed he was doing the impossible._

_And then his feet went numb, and he knew the stagger was easily visible from his opponent's position. To his horror and outrage, she seemed to think it was over—never mind that he'd been close to winning a moment ago, she lowered her guard and leveled the slender sword straight at him, seeming to debate whether to pierce his throat or his heart._

Move!

_His feet were frozen._

MOVE.

_His hands were sweaty, tingling._

She's trying to kill me-

_-But I won't let her. Bring it together, all of it—something fast, strong, unexpected. With the remaining energy, think of a technique to _bring her down…

_-He had it. He'd never managed it in practice, but there was no time like the present to—_

_She stabbed. Adrenaline shot through his muscles like lightning, jolting him into action. The preparation was sloppy, the work of a blink, but it was enough, because everything…_

…_fell into place._

_Breath, muscle, bone, and sinew. Pull, push, steel, rush… He took a step, and then she was behind him, and a collective gasp rustled about him._

"_We call this _Iai_," he rasped, and felt his right arm begin to burn from the blow he didn't quite manage to avoid. _

_This shouldn't have been possible—the blade he's using now was never made for this kind of move, but there was the _touch, _the instinct for it that he'd been missing. Now he had it, and he'd won._

"_To a medical institution," said a loud, jovial voice nearby, "and then we shall purchase liquid intoxication! But first! To collect the wagers, gentlemen, if you please…"

* * *

_

A well-aimed chop bit through the muscles of Pash's left arm, and Boy was briefly impressed to hear only a grunt of discomfort from the wounded man.

The ploy didn't work quite as well as he'd hoped—while Pash certainly lost some control of his movements, this hardly did anything in Boy's favor. If anything, he'd given his enemy the advantage of unpredictability. He had no interest in losing some other piece of him, and his hand was already slippery with blood; therefore, his best option was to finish the fight as quickly as possible.

He wondered as he tried to maneuver into a more profitable position how it would be if Pash's strength and Marione du Chapeau's subtlety could be incorporated into a single style. The perfect offense and defense.

The perfect swordsman.

"Interesting thought," he said under his breath, and went for Pash's right leg. A second later, the Marine was stumbling, and Boy put all of his remaining strength into catching the broadsword's crossguard and twisting it out of its owner's hands. It clattered on the frozen earth, leaving Pash unarmed, Boy's sword at his throat.

"…Well?" said the man after a moment, eyebrows lowered fearsomely over his eyes. Wind whistled above them, catching on the walls of the courtyard.

"Give me the wanted posters," Boy told him.

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

His headache was coming back. "I might, if you don't give me the posters," he snapped, asserting just enough pressure to draw blood.

"Never in my life has an opponent of one-on-one combat been bold enough to slay me."

"Killing a strong opponent would be boring," Boy snapped, what little patience he had vanishing. "They wouldn't know they'd been beaten. Now, the pack full of bounty posters! The one you showed me in the cells!"

"They're still there," said Pash, frowning. "But I doubt my comrades would allow you to—"

"We'll see about that," said Boy, and set off towards the door, wiping his bloody hand on his pants as he went.

* * *

_The young man is as of yet unnamed, but the populous of North Blue tells our sources he is called "Hawkeyes" by pirates who have encountered him. He appears to have begun a secondary crusade against our own forces, resulting in the injury of one, Lieutenant Pash, and several other base residents. He seems experienced for the most part in bladed combat. Capture attempts are recommended for high-ranking Marines and Devil Fruit users. Do not engage lightly.

* * *

_

Boy stared balefully at the bottle on the table over the sheaf of posters. "I don't like alcohol. I thought we had established that."

Curry scoffed loudly, tugging at the cork. "Be not so swift to judge, bratling. After all, you have only consumed a single type of said beverage. The variety is so very broad! Now…" The cork came out with a loud _pop!_ and the old man poured a small measure into the two tiny glasses now resting on the deck. "…Drink."

"Did you say this was…wine?"

"Correct!" Curry raised his glass to his nose, sniffed appreciatively, and then down it in one gulp. This appeared to cause him no ill effects, and after a moment Boy tentatively picked up the other cup in thumb and forefinger.

"North Blue wine," he muttered. Then he closed his eyes and sipped slowly until there was none left. There was silence for a moment as he considered the flavor and texture, and then he wrinkled his nose. "It's like vinegar." _Only thicker and nastier._

"It is," Curry agreed.

There was another pause.

"Pour me some more," said Boy. Curry did so, with a meaningful look that seemed to imply he would only humor his student _just this once_.

Trying to savor the stuff and wondering how long it took to acquire a taste this foul, Boy continue to search the wanted posters for more recent additions.

"_Needle Hands" Morau Jemima_

"_Lucky Charm" Leona_

"_Ripper" Young Jack_

"_Crazy Bastard" Chyachi Domu_

"_Brown Coat" Sorry Abe_

"_Blood Drinker" Drakula Ebons…_

"I believe he resides in this quarter of the world."

"Hm?" said Boy, still concentrating on the pale, thin face printed on the parchment.

"Ebons. He seems to be a North Blue legend. You ought to pursue him as your next target," said Curry, pouring what had to be at least his thirtieth cup of wine (the bottle was already half empty).

"We need a location and a map," said Boy, turning his eyes back to the bounty under the name. "I don't suppose you happened to steal those along with these?" He gestured to the bottle and glasses.

"No indeed! Though I believe that might be a definite possibility when we arrive at our next resting place."

"Good," said Boy. "In the meantime, you can give the rest of the wine to me and tell me some of these stories you've heard about him."

They were both awake late into the night; there were a lot of stories. As soon as Curry finished one, Boy would object to its unrealistic nature and another half-hour would be spent postulating theories that might make the tale plausible. Devil Fruits were discussed at length, and Boy swore to find an encyclopedia somewhere, because the things were too bothersome to ignore.

In the end, though, there was no real way of knowing where the truth ended and the lies began, and Boy decided as he settled down to sleep that the only way to truly know was to meet the man in person.

* * *

**Once again, I've managed to lose all my review replies through failure to save, so they may be a bit brief the second time round.**

**Boy should get a name next chapter! I'm sure you're all staring at one title in particular up there, but I can't tell you anything, so you'll just have to buckle up and hold on for the ride...**

**Review Replies**

**QuietInsomniac: Thank you! Yes, booze and swordfights...they do seem to feature prominently in the recent chapters, don't they? I guess drunk people are just fun to write, Curry especially. I get to go crazy with his vocabulary. XD As for liver cancer...it's a possibility. As are lung cancer, impalement, and official execution (who knows how far his petty crimes are going to go in the future?). Anyway, Mihawk, as I say, gets a name next chapter (and high time for it, too!), and the girl is...no one. Sorry. In hindsight, she should have been someone. It's a shame to leave out something like that.**

**I'm guessing this chapter brings up more questions, hm? Bring 'em on! :D**

**Cat: And thank you for reviewing! You have no idea how happy it makes me to know that it makes you happy to see I've updated. Wait, whut?**

**Maijin Hentai X: Well, he didn't have Yoru or the hat in Strong World 0, so I'm going to assume he didn't get them until after Roger's execution. Which means another two years (in-story) until he gets around to it. *sigh* As to him being a pirate captain...I've debated it with my unofficial editor, and we've come to the conclusion that he acts like a natural loner. Plus, I'm too lazy to spend my time thinking of a crew for him.**

**Gazer: Thank you! Curry is a joy to write, though I can only take partial credit for his creation; he has a mind of his own, you know. And Boy's evolution has also been interesting to follow, though I'm itching for him to become more powerful, which will make for more epic battles in the future. That's probably why I'm having him learn so quickly, haha. And I want real backstory for Mihawk, dangit! You're right-he's a _huge _question mark, and making up theories is not satisfying my need for information! And don't worry-this fic is nowhere near dying. I just update really...really...really...really...slooooowwwwly...**

**Aoihand: Still getting over the fact that you're reviewing my fic. As I said, if you look closely, tip of the hat... Anyway, thanks! I aim to entertain, you know. It wouldn't be One Piece without the funnies. Well, I mean, this isn't OP, really...but you get the gist. You make me happy-I'll keep writing if you keep reading! **

**Rom Nom Nom: If I ever publish a real book, I'll make sure you know...but I think I'll keep Subtlety online. After all, it'd be such a pain to change everything! XD But point taken, and I'm grateful for your compliments-that's strong talk! You make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and hopefully this update's another 10/10 for you.**

**Roronoanne: And _you're _reviewing in German! Not irritating at all, trust me. :D I need to update more often; this is good practice. And, wow, I had no idea this was the kind of story someone would check frequently for updates...I've read stories like that m'self, and they always seem to update at a stupidly slow pace. Like this one. ...Hm. Maybe that's a factor...**

**Thank you kindly for the word "masterpiece", which is an encouraging thing to hear and makes me want to do better every time I post. And for okaying my fight scenes, which I'd been worrying about. :) Though I'm not a martial artist by a long shot-I just wrote what sounded right to me. I think Mihawk's writing this story for me... So anyway, it's Deutsch time! Just in time for me to practice inserting umlauts. Tell me if I screw up, alright? **

**Und ich muss dich wieder danken, denn ich liebe neue w****örter zu lernen. Ich war ganz überrascht, dass ich k****önnte viele verstehen, zu finden. (die Kommas...?) Deutsch ist ja manchmal kompliziert, aber meine Lehrerin ist sehr gut und ich liebe die Sprache. Und du hast jetzt Mariones Kampf gelesen, weil ich schuldig **** nach Kapitel 9 ****war... Verzeih mich bitte... Sowieso! Ja, _viel _länger als zw****ölf Kapitel wird's sein... Ich kann nicht Mihawks ganz Leben**** so schnell ****erz****ählen, und ich würde dann nur zwei Kapitel fur die Storys Ende haben! **

**Urr. Wow, that was weird. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing with that last sentence...or really most of it. Hng. **

**Senko-Chan: Yes, I'm working him into a state of famousness-I might even have given him a poster before now, but he doesn't have a name yet. Next chapter, next chapter... *chanting* Yes, I rather enjoy creating swordswomen-they're more of a challenge character-wise than the guys, and you're very right when you say there aren't enough in canon. *sigh* Pity, really.**

**Orange205: I guess more would be cool, but the reviews I'm getting right now are just fine; you guys are totally awesome! Hah, "update soon", hahahah... A-heh... At least you tried... Don't worry, I write a lot of my stories in that state. Monosyllabia is my kingdom.***

**Solo Loco Ellington-Rose: My, what a long name you have! May I call you SLER? (No, just kidding, really!) Anyway, _you _are awesome. I'd love to see someone like Curry turn up in OP, though I'm not sure how his wordiness would translate into Japanese... *musing* **

**In any case... Ironically, I'm not fond of long chapters either. I used to read a fic that always had super-long updates, and it would take me so long to finish reading each chapter... Maybe I have a complex and I'm trying to inflict my own suffering on others, huh? The memory loss...I wrote it fully intending to make it important, I swear! But Curry just acted like himself and eventually had an anticlimactic chelonian epiphany. I swear, that man... **

**I would also like to thank you profusely for Mihawk's age and height, which will be very helpful in chapters to come. I see I'll have to give him a growth spurt somewhere in the near future, though. Wow.**

**TheDML: I bow to your dedication and thank you so much for the review! Here's your fix, though you're probably going cold turkey by now (Cold turtle? Cold rabbit? Cold penguin?). But don't worry, his fashion sense ought to get a little rearranging some time in the near future, possibly when Curry's not around to mock him for it. Excellent point, though.**

**AttilaTheBunny: It would appear that I haven't updated since the end of the last school year. Dang. In my defense, I've been very busy! It's been an insanely crowded summer. Anyway. I'm happy that you like my fight scenes, because there will be a lot of them and they will only get longer and more extreme! Though I regret to inform you, as I hinted above, that Curry will not be around much longer. I hope you did well on finals, and now it's time for that long and detailed review you promised...**

**Phalanx: Thanks for pointing that out...yes, FF has been eating my line breaks this whole time, which is completely maddening, but I've put them back in several of the chapters, including this one and the last one. So. They should be readable now. :D**

**As for the hat thing...IT'S TOTALLY TRUE. This didn't just come out of nowhere; this was the result of long thought, study, and consideration! Of course, if you transcend a certain degree of awesomeness/are not a devoted swordsman, you may not have a hat. But look at all the swordsmen! Here, let me make a handy chart...****

**Sir Gar the Bold: Thanks! Yes, subtlety _finally _came into play! I've been waiting to put that in since chapter one...**

**

* * *

*****Monosyllabia is not a word. There's a little squiggly red line under it right now. **

****Mihawk-Bad$$ black fedora thing with a feather.**

**Zoro-Bandanna.**

**Vista-Top hat.**

**Brook-_Little _top hat.**

**Law-Most excellent fluffy carnival hat.**

**Shanks-Used to have a hat, and gave it to Luffy, who is not a swordsman but is clearly awesome enough to wear it.**

**T-bone-Helmet!**

**Kaku-...What is that, anyway?**

**X. Drake-...Not sure about that, either.**

**Shiryuu-Well, it's the official Impel Down hat, but still.**

**Lola-Am I right? Doesn't she wear that little round, red hat?**

**

* * *

Tashigi-No hat. No explanation for this.  
**

**Rayleigh-No hat. Way too awesome to care.**

**Of course, there are many others without hats. But look at that array of behatted ones! Most of them are the super-powerful swordsmen of the series.**


	10. Part X: Challenger

**Um...**

**I have a confession to make...**

**You know how I said he'd get his proper name this chapter...?**

**...**

**DON'T KILL ME.**

**It wouldn't fit! Unless you would enjoy reading a 9,000 word chapter (or something like that length), it just wasn't an option. But Part XI will definitely include Dracule Mihawk. I swear it! **

* * *

**Fun fact: in document form, the entirety of this story has reached 100 pages and 71,898 words. I must be crazy or something.  
**

* * *

**I keep expecting someone to flame this story. Not for any specific reason, or because I by any means _want _someone to flame my work, but I'm sure there's someone out there fuming over the story every time it updates and thinking, "She's doin' it wrong!" Then again, that's probably the case of most stories on this site. I shouldn't worry.**

**Anyway (and high time for it!), here's Part X for your reading pleasure! Or displeasure, if you spend your spare time composing flames. ;)  
**

* * *

Part X: Challenger

_"I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him." -Mark Twain (1835-1910)_

"I think my finger is growing back."

"Oh, fabulous. I was unaware of your stunning regenerative capabilities. We shall make a fortune of your freakhood!"

"Shut your mouth, old man."

"Beggar me not with pointless factoids, brat."

"_Tch. _As you wish, then."

A silence filled with unspoken annoyance.

"This is all your fault."

"I fail to see how that is so."

"You ate all our rations!"

"I acquired them in the first place. I have difficulty seeing the issue with this situation."

"Perhaps, hm, the fact that _we are starving_?" suggested Boy, as acidly as he knew how.

"A triviality."

_There are _no _words…_

They had been floating in the doldrums for days now without food, watery sunlight filtering down on them through half-hearted cloud cover. Fresh water supplies were waning, though fortunately, Curry had enough rum to keep him sated for at least another three days. Boy was as sparing with the water as possible, and stayed away from the alcohol as much as possible. He wasn't eager to lose his judgment any faster than he had to.

"You are _certain _that he lives there?"

"Positive! Do not doubt my judgment, or the repercussions shall be swift and brutal!"

"When your muscles atrophy from lack of nourishment, you can tell me that again. What did he call it? 'Over-forest Island'?"

"Also correct. I don't suppose the injury to your hand has perhaps affected your auditory system?"  
"Just confirming," grunted Boy. "What kind of name is that for an island, anyway?"

"I would assume that it is over-forested," said Curry. "You know, Boy, I believe I ought to teach you something new as long as we have naught else to do."  
"Oh? What do you have left to teach me?"

"Juggling."

There was a flash of white above Boy, and he instinctively stretched out one hand to protect his face… There was a sensation of collapsing, and then something viscous and slimy dripped onto his face. A moment later, the yolk fell into his eye.

"_Old man!"_

"What?"

"You threw an egg at me! What do you mean by _'what'_?" Another thought hit Boy, and he immediately rolled over, propping himself onto his elbows to glare at Curry. "You had an egg? Are there more? That's _food _you're wasting!"

"I was giving a hands-on lesson," said Curry, sounding affronted at Boy's egregious lack of respect. "Is that now how you prefer to learn swordsmanship?"

"Usually they give me a warning," growled Boy, still wiping the contents of the egg out of his eyes. "And we could have eaten that!"

"Oh, cease your whining and be off to the land of the nod."

By now, Boy was loathe to follow orders from Curry. On the other hand, sleep was always welcome, and he had nothing else to do. So long as no more eggs were likely to fall on his face, dozing was a good way to let the monotony pass by.

The greatest blessing at this point would have been an Eternal Pose. Unfortunately, such devices only functioned on the Grand Line. Finding an island in North Blue was much more difficult, especially when anyone you happened to ask about its whereabouts was too terrified to speak of it. A week ago, Curry had finally succeeded in getting a pirate drunk enough to babble something about its coordinates, and then stolen the unfortunate mariner's map.

Any optimism Boy had had about the venture had disappeared along with their provisions. It was a bleak state of affairs indeed, with no land in sight and only the egg on his face to show that there had ever been food aboard the craft. Boy knew enough not to move overmuch—using up energy would require sustenance, of which there was none. So he lay still and hoped for land.

* * *

The next morning was colder than usual. They'd passed through a balmier patch of the sea recently, but even this momentary mercy was now denied them. Boy checked his ears for frostbite, got the air in his lungs moving with a few white puffs of breath, and then sat up to stare grimly at the iron-gray water stretching away on all sides. A brief scan of the deck told him Curry was elsewhere (probably finishing off the last of those eggs, he thought bitterly).

His stomach gurgled unpleasantly at the thought. Boy grimaced at the sound and settled back onto the cool planks of the deck. Better to sleep some more than to starve awake.

This welcome lapse in discomfort was a short one; Boy was awakened by a booted foot kicking him repeatedly in the ribs. Vexed and still half-asleep, he popped into a crouch, grabbed at his attacker's clothes, and used his grip on their coat to slam his forehead into their nose.

"Just comeuppance, old m—" Boy halted mid-sentence, staring down at the man now bleeding and cursing at his feet. It certainly wasn't Curry, which meant…

Boy administered another healthy blow to the man's diaphragm, just to keep him down, and made his way to the prow through heavy early-morning fog. Beyond it…

…there was snow. Boy was not given to enthusiastic displays of celebration, but he felt this warranted acknowledgment of some sort. Thus, a brief but heart-felt pump of one arm before he hurried back to the unfortunate trespasser.

He was still prone on the deck, but obviously there was still some semblance of rationality there, because one watering eye flickered towards Boy as he approached. Boy saw the man's hand twitch towards the inside of his coat, and immediately took action—he couldn't have their guest pulling a weapon. Hardly polite of him!

A quick stomp left the stranger's hand twitching and bruised, and a cursory search of the man's pockets yielded a rusted knife and a miniature pistol. Boy didn't know how to disarm a gun, but tossing it into the frigid ocean seemed to do the job just as well.

"Alright," he said softly, crouching next to his victim, "why don't you tell me what you're doing here?"

"_You must…leave…now—" _the intruder grunted, clutching at his injured hand.

"Not an option," said Boy dismissively. "I'm far too hungry. What's your name, man?"

"_Rats."_

Boy paused, frowning slightly. "Was that an expletive or were you answering my question?"

"My name," said Rats, a little more clearly now as the pain faded.

"…Was your mother sick when you were born?" asked Boy, raising his eyebrows.

"Your leeway is limited in that area, _Boy_! Simply because your own moniker leaves something to be desired—"

"Oh, yes? And whose fault was _that_, Curry?" Boy retorted without bothering to look over his shoulder.

"Your many battles thus far have been quite successful, have they not? I gave you the option of choosing your own name, and so far you have not!"

Boy had no argument for this, but instead turned back to questioning Rats, who had raised himself into a sitting position and was now watching the two of them warily.

"Is this Over-forest Island?"

Terror scrambled over the man's features, swiftly followed by frantic nodding. "Yes, yes! You must leave here, now!"

"I've no intention of doing so," Boy told him, brisk in barely-contained elation. "So you came here to warn us, did you? Why would we want to leave, Rats?"

Round, terrified eyes sought for a route of escape, but the way back to land was now obscured by Curry, where he slouched, idly sliding a whetstone over his saber. He caught Rats' eye, gave him a jovial white-toothed grin, and motioned for him to speak.

"Thuh…the master of the castle—he…he'll…he doesn't like strangers." He trailed off a little lamely, staring at the deck.

"_Fantastic _incentive," murmured Curry.

"What's his name?" asked Boy, heart pounding now.

Rats looked utterly petrified with terror. "I…can't...if he hears his name, he'll come here and carry me away and suck out all my blood—"

"Excellent," breathed Boy. "_'Blood Drinker' Drakula Ebons._"

Rats made a noise somewhere between a groan and a wail. Boy fixed him with his most terrifying glare, which seemed to halt noise and movement for the moment. Then he retrieved his nameless sword from where he'd been resting and verified that the knife still hung around his neck.

"Off to seek nourishment from the creatures of the tundra?" inquired Curry as he passed. Boy nodded brusquely, vaulting over the side of the boat into knee-deep snow.

The scenery of Over-forest Island was dominated not by trees, as one might have expected, but by the dark, looming shoulders of a mountain. What trees there were seemed skeletal and blackened, though upon closer inspection, there was no evidence of burning. Despite the land's rather sparse and macabre nature, Boy felt almost at home among the spindly black silhouettes.

And beyond one particularly thick copse…

* * *

"This is a wolf," said Curry.

"I know that," said Boy, trying to clean blood from his knife, hands, face, and legs all at once.

"Wolf meat is notoriously tough."

"But it's edible, is it not?"

"Strewth. But even so…"

"Do you want to eat it or not?" Boy snapped, throwing the scarlet-stained cloth to the deck in a fit of bad grace. "If you've already sated yourself with eggs, feel free to go juggle snowballs. I plan to _eat_."

This outburst seemed to surprise even Curry for a moment, and then the old man shrugged and went back to caring for his sword. "Do as you please."

Gutting the creature was a less than pleasant business, and the task grew no less disgusting from there on in. Boy's mind wandered elsewhere in self-defense, and ended up considering the curious aftermath of the hunt.

Killing a wolf was very much unlike killing a rabbit. It neither fled nor attacked, leaving Boy with the responsibility of the first move. It was big, powerful, dangerous, and fought with as much killing intent as he'd felt in another swordsman. When it came down to it, he'd been loath to kill the animal, wondering for a moment whether he ought to leave it in the bloodied snow and go after something tamer. But he couldn't give chase in this snow, and small mammals would be sleeping underground until what passed for summer rolled around. Regardless, he'd already wounded the wolf's left hind leg irreparably.

So he'd killed it.

"Thank you for a good fight," he muttered to the carcass, and kept cutting.

After this, he planned to stick with animals lower on the food chain.

* * *

The next day, after wolf-and-lentil soup (the beans were confiscated from Rats' dubiously grubby coat), Boy and Curry donned as many layers as were available onboard and set out for the mountain. There, Curry said with absolute certainty, would be the "master of the castle". The sheer grandeur of the landmark's size prompted Boy to agree, and so they went.

It was arduous terrain, and though Boy prided himself on his stamina, the snow constantly fettering his legs began gradually to wear him down. However, just as he had steeled himself to sit and rest, regardless of the cold, Curry exclaimed and bounded off through the trees towards some unseen fortune.

Said fortune turned out to be a rudimentary path, carved into the snow by continual use. Boy gratefully stamped clinging white clumps from his trousers, peering down the road in both directions. One seemed to lead back to the coast, while the other…

Preoccupied, Boy sidled towards a nearby tree, eyes still fixed on the distance, and began to haul himself up the trunk. Curry, apparently unconcerned by his protégée's behavior, had already begun to wander in the direction of Boy's gaze.

There had been a slight hillock obscuring his view earlier. However Boy found that with only the minimal blockage of the sparse forest and the additional advantage of height, he could pick out details of the landscape several hundred feet down the road. For instance, a wandering herd of deer (Boy scowled at them; venison would have been far more pleasing than wolf meat). As he turned his gaze further, a village cradled in the foothills of the mountain became apparent.

This was heartening—if Drakula Ebons did not, in fact, make his home on the mountain, then at least there a place to start searching. It would be best, of course, if the rest of the island's inhabitants weren't all as tight-lipped as Rats in regard to their master.

On flat ground, it didn't take him long to catch up with Curry, and the two of them proceeded magnificently along in the numbing cold.

As they neared their destination, lacking anything else to do, they began to trade good-natured insults, each jibe becoming more elaborate as their repertoire of conventional insults began to wane.

Eventually, however, this odd conversation took an even stranger turn as Curry resorted to ancient and bizarre quotes from his favorite plays. Normally, Boy would have been too proud to rejoin, but the first taunt was far too grave.

It was all Curry's fault, really, for calling him a fustilugs…

"And you, _sir_, are a shooling gobslotch," he snapped back, waving one hand in abstract annoyance.

Curry recoiled at the offence. "Nothing of the kind, I assure you! And I hardly think you've the authority to say so, Johnny-raw that y'are!"

"And what of you?" Boy retorted, thoroughly enjoying himself—though he'd never admit it. "I find you to be, in most cases, something of a Cousin Tommy and overall a pregnant scholar."

"You wound me, thou cow-handed, gumpish queere-duke!"

"I feel that last was unwarranted—I happen to weightier than you by more than a hair…no thanks to you and your tendency toward wanton starvation! A moth of peace, I say!"

"Zounderkite!"

"Nyargle!"

"Sheep-biter!"

"Gongoozler!"

"Keyhole-whistler!"

"Windy-wallets!"

Curry couldn't deny that one, and in any case, they'd entered the village a moment or so ago, and those few still on the streets were sending very odd looks in their direction… Boy was about to point this out to Curry when he was distracted by the sound of marching feet.

Marines didn't march in step, but there was a certain formality, trained into their stride, that could be used to identify them. Boy grabbed Curry's sleeve and dragged him unceremoniously under the awning of a bakery, hissing, "_Marines!_" by way of explanation.

They waited until the column of crisply-starched white uniforms had passed, and then Curry raised one irate eyebrow, unimpressed by the World Government's Finest. "Why on earth did you find that necessary?"

"I wasn't being cowardly," said Boy, a little defensively. "But they'll be looking for me from now on, and I would rather use them than challenge one. Not one of them looked like a proper swordsman anyway."  
"'Use' them, you say? How so, pray tell?"

Boy shook his head, lips pursed. "I have a theory. Wait for me to prove it."

"Confident, are you?" The old man was unimpressed, as usual. "Very well. Off you go to prove it! I shall seek sustenance!"

Boy's stomach growled at the thought of food—wolf and lentil soup, as it turned out, was not particularly filling. But he'd be damned if he was going to follow Curry now, so instead he turned in the opposite direction to follow the Marines. If he was lucky, he'd be right and, more importantly, they would be headed for a restaurant.

As it turned out, the Marines did indeed stop by an eating place by the edge of the village; unfortunately, they seemed to be concerned only with information. Boy dug for spare coins in his pockets, found enough to buy a drink he could sip inconspicuously, and settled nearby to listen.

They were as blunt in their interrogation as Boy had been on the boat, though the shop's owner was somewhat more open than Rats in his answers. Even so, there was the constant wary undertone, as though any wrong word might bring calamity on his head.

"This is our third day on this island, and no one has answered us honestly. We are looking for the whereabouts of one, Drakula Ebons. We know the area; we only need your cooperation for the specifics. Tell us where he lives."

"I don't know." It was a near-flawless lie. Boy caught the flutter of accelerated heartbeat that said it was so, but what it was that tipped off the Marines, he didn't know. Regardless, the question was repeated, more forcefully, until the man barked out an impatient answer and threatened to run them out of his store. The troupe seemed unimpressed, but left anyway; they'd learned what they came for.

So had Boy. He allowed ten seconds for their departure, and then set off after them at a reasonable gait. After a few minutes of trailing them, he caught the faintly rasping breaths that meant Curry had found him—the old man had a tendency toward congestion in cold weather.

Without turning to look, he said, "I know where he lives."

"Remarkable," said the old man, and turned briefly to hack up a mess of various nasty substances from the back of his throat. "And how, exactly, did that come about?"

Boy told him, eyes never leaving the uniformed backs ahead of him. Curry was, as always, indifferent to his student's exploits, and made it known as verbally as he could considering the phlegm constricting his speech.

"Could you not have simply conducted such an inquiry yourself?"

"No," said Boy, who could spare no concentration for extraneous words.

"And why is that, pray?"

"I'd like to retain my anonymity here. I want to know more of my enemy than he does of me; we know nothing of the nature of his surveillance here. It's safer to let the officials do my work for me."  
"Insidious little bugger, aren't you?"

"Whatever you say," muttered Boy, willing Curry to just _stop talking_.

Miraculously, he did—probably thanks to the seasonal illness rather than any inclination to make life easier for his pupil. Whichever, thought Boy, climbing doggedly after the Marines. They'd left the town by now, and had progressed into the foothills, where the sharp fields of broken rock were hidden by snow that was crunchy with ice. Even through the leather of his boots, Boy could sense the dangers of the terrain. Stepping in the path cleared by the Marines' heavy feet, he managed a pace swift enough to keep them in his sight.

Even as they went higher, still the mountain's black spire towered above them. Boy paused to look up at it once; with the detail provided by his sensitive eyesight, the effect was dizzying, almost vertigo-inducing. Shuddering, he turned his gaze back to a safer level and strode on.

For the majority of the journey, there seemed to be no purpose to the Marine platoon's wandering. They wound through trees and rocks, over streams and through faults in the massive, dark crags.

Each time they changed course, it seemed to be at the behest of a man wearing epaulettes and a long, white coat emblazoned with the characters for _Justice_. Whenever they halted, he would raise one hand to the level of his chest, extend his arm, and begin slowly to spin. The gyrations would accelerate steadily until, panting and nauseous, he would stop abruptly. Whichever way the hand pointed, the Marines would follow.

Boy was confused and somewhat unnerved by this behavior until Curry voiced the opinion that the man had probably partaken of the _Compass-compass _Fruit or some such. Boy opened his mouth to reply that that was ridiculous, but stopped himself before the words could pass his lips. He had learned long ago that nothing in this world was ridiculous. He'd surpassed the limitations of his closeted upbringing by now, and there were more things under the sun than he would ever understand.

Twisting and turning, winding and weaving…the way was wearying, but he wasn't so weak as to collapse from it… Though the air was undoubtedly thinner here, and Curry's breath rattled behind him, Boy knew that halting was not an option.

Still, he was beginning to doubt that they would ever reach the blood drinker's residence when it appeared before them.

In much the same way that he had not realized the existence of the Red Line, so it took Boy a moment to comprehend that he was looking at…a castle.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, if anything, but a _castle_… It rose above them, a hunching black silhouette against the pale, snowy sky. Boy saw pointed towers, broad, ornate windows, and grotesque gargoyles squatting at gate and gable. Instantly, he felt a deep liking for the place, as bizarre as the thought was. The style of it, the ominous grandeur, the aura surrounding it…

An appearance that spoke of greatness. It was _fearsome_.

And then, of course, Curry took it upon himself to ruin the moment. "That is most aesthetically displeasing."

The old bastard. Tired and vexed, Boy aimed a half-hearted punch at Curry's head…

…and blinked in shock as it connected.

Curry scowled, cuffing him around the ear with one bony fist. "What on earth put it in you to do _that_?" he snapped, and then, without waiting for an answer, moved on towards the drawbridge leading up to the huge, gothic doors, leaving Boy to stare and wonder.

Increasingly, when Curry felt the need to spar, Boy had begun to land more and more blows, and as the old man's skill had not diminished…he could only assume—

This line of thought was abruptly interrupted by a scream. Boy instantly classified it as unrecognizable, and therefore probably one of the Marines. It _could _have come from the notorious master of the house, but Boy was depending on Drakula to be stronger than that. He crossed the drawbridge at a run, joining Curry by one of the wide glass windows.

There were curtains beyond them, but the barest gap near the bottom allowed the barest view of the interior. Boy squinted, frowning at the impossible darkness beyond, and wondered what kind of man could possibly live in such a lightless place. A flurry of movement…a muffled thud, a grunt—someone yelled weakly, and then the outcry was suddenly quenched. Boy strained to see, but a moment later all action ceased.

Save for the wind howling in the peaks above, silence reigned. Boy gave up trying to catch a glimpse of the goings-on inside and instead walked purposely towards the castle's steely main entrance. He counted to five, allowing whoever was inside to finish their business, and then rapped sharply at the door. Inside, the knocks echoed cavernously, and Boy found he couldn't restrain the slightest shiver of apprehension at the sound.

It took long enough for their host to come to the door that Boy almost thought he planned to simply ignore them. Had that been the case, he would have been perfectly willing to break a window or two in order to gain entry.

Fortunately, such rudeness was not required; the doors opened inwards with a creaky kind of elegance. Boy instinctively put one hand to the hilt of his sword, but after a moment it became clear that no ambush was coming. He relaxed a little and took one wary step inside, eyes probing the darkness for signs of life.

"Welcome, dear visitors."

Ah. There. Boy found the shape of him in one shadowy corner, and while one part of his brain analyzed the man's voice, the rest sought to make sense of the dark figure.

_Deep, cultured, careful enunciation._

_Pale skin, almost-white face shows up in the darkness._

_Rolls his Rs, faint hiss in the S…_

_Eyes gleam like a cat's in the light. Are they…red?_

"In truth," said Curry's voice, booming in the massive open space, "this _boy _is your only visitor this good evening. Have you, perhaps, stables where I might make my bed?"

Boy did not object; honestly, this was the best thing Curry could have done. At least the man had _some _sense of decency at times.

"Indeed," said the sibilant voice. "Though of course I would rather offer you my hospitality here—it is much warmer inside, you know."  
"I have slept in worse, sir." Curry swept off his broad brown hat and bowed with a flourish. "If you would be so kind as to direct me to said equine quarters?"

"Only a hundred paces or so beyond the window where you enjoyed my dispatch of those lovely Marine gentlemen earlier, you ought to find a passage into the lower courtyard. Please, make yourself at home."  
Boy didn't let the shock show, but he couldn't help wondering how they had been noticed; the gap in the curtains had been infinitesimal, and surely the castle's occupant had been…_occupied _during that time.

Curry was gone.

"I suppose you're wondering exactly how I knew you were there," said the man in the shadows. There was the barest hint of a smile to his accented voice. "I'll just say this…I'm very sensitive to light and the absence thereof, you know? You blocked the light."

Boy had no time to question this; there were more important matters at hand. "Are you Drakula Ebons?" he asked, wondering why his eyes hadn't adjusted yet.

"No."

It was the work of a moment—the blade of his sword gleamed dully in the snowy light still filtering through the open doors. "Then _who are you_?"

"My name is Drakula—"

"You said—"

"—Drakula Vlad Shirek Rugossei Rangella Jerado Palanshi Kinskilee Ebons."

There was a pause as Boy considered this.

"Of course, these are only from my mother's side."

"…I see," said Boy, and sheathed his sword again. "I've come here to challenge you. You are a swordsman, correct?"

"In a battle, I could be…I shall say this now, however: beware. My Devil Fruit has—how might one say—certain _side effects_."

"Those don't concern me," said Boy, who was perfectly aware that they should have. "At your convenience, then."

"Ah, but I do insist you stay for dinner!"

He would have refused, but currently the only thing in his stomach, roiling uncomfortably, was wolf-and-lentil soup. "Very well. But first, I would like to know one thing."

"And that is?"

"Please turn a light on." Drakula's polite demeanor was wearing off on him—Boy mentally cursed himself for using "please", and then coughed as he realized he had yet to ask the question. "What became of the Marines that you, as you say, dispatched earlier?"

There was a faint chuckle, and the darkness swirled before Boy's bewildered eyes as Drakula moved. On the far wall, a lamp began to flicker with flame and then steadied.

"Oh, they are still alive…worry not. Of course, they ought to die shortly; blood that I have removed does not replenish itself. Their lethargy will soon cause them to deteriorate."

"That's disgusting," said Boy bluntly, blinking in the fresh light. "Incidentally, when you mentioned 'dinner' earlier…"

Drakula Ebons smiled a sharp, white-toothed smile. "How convenient! This is related to our current topic of conversation!" One hand, sheathed in an elbow-length black glove, vanished behind his back. When it reappeared, there was a tiny bottle of crimson liquid between its thumb and forefinger.

Boy stared in distaste at the vial, genuinely disgusted by its contents. "I do not drink…blood."

The smile dropped a few notches. "Hm. In that case, perhaps something more appetizing might be arranged. I am aware, you know, that these cravings are most unnatural. But I have come to tolerate them as something unique—nay, wonderful—"

"You _bother _me immensely," said Boy. "If I sleep here tonight, I would like a guarantee that I will not awaken with my veins lonesome for a pint of blood."

"Of course not!" "Blood Drinker" seemed genuinely hurt by this implication. "As though I would tamper with a true honorable duel. It has been such a long time since a worthy swordsman appeared on my doorstep. I would never waste such an opportunity."

"Good to hear," muttered Boy.

* * *

Dinner proved to be venison. It had to be venison, because no matter how one looked at it, a whole deer cannot be mistaken for a human corpse.

Boy tried not to drool.

It had been a very long time since he'd eaten properly, and longer since the food had actually been good. Manners vanished in the face of fresh deer meat.

Drakula, of course, was rather more fastidious in his methods. In fact, his concentration on the food was so complete that it afforded Boy more than enough time to study his opponent.

In the light, his pale skin was glaringly white, his eyes disturbingly dark. Jet-black irises almost obscured the whites of his eyes. He was dressed in an immaculate black suit and the elbow-length gloves that Boy had noticed earlier. The white ruffles at his throat were as of yet free of grease spots, and Boy had an odd feeling that the cloth would stay that way.

The dining hall was dimly lit by spiny black chandeliers, which swayed ponderously over the impossibly long table. Boy was seated at one end, and Drakula at the other. Boy found this arrangement perfectly acceptable—the man unnerved him, and he could easily pick up details from this distance.

Not a word passed between them throughout the whole meal, and after they had finished, Drakula summoned a deformed and disturbingly stitched-up servant to guide Boy to the "guest bedroom".

The stairway, which probably led to the castle's tallest tower, seemed to go on forever, and though they were indoors, the temperature was still intolerably low.

Boy tried to avoid looking at the servant, but felt that the awkward silence required filling. "And your name is?"

He met the lopsided eyes with admirable steadiness as the…man turned to look at him and spoke in a surprisingly average voice. "Rogi, thir."

Boy blinked once, accommodated for the lisp, and nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Carry on."

The bedroom was huge and ancient, smelling of must and salt. Boy disliked the scent instantly, but was won over by the four-poster bed, which also smelled odd but looked grand enough to make up for it. He settled under one layer of the thick, dusty covers and was asleep almost at once.

* * *

_Curry had somehow acquired a pet sea otter. It could talk, but the only thing it ever talked about was teeth. Curry named it Chin-chin, and they yattered on and on at each other about different kinds of teeth, until one day Curry brought out his tooth collection and told Chin-chin, "And I shall have Boy's as well, once he has passed beyond this mortal realm!" And then they both laughed and—_

_- then Boy was back fighting Marione du Chapeau, except this time he was wearing a large, black hat with a hundred red feathers on top, which made his power tenfold what it had been previously. He battled flawlessly, predicting every move, and yet the crowd was laughing…and they laughed louder and louder and louder until he turned around to yell at them and noticed that the hat was the _only _thing he was wear-_

Muzzily, Boy came to, the dreams slipping out of his mind like water from a cracked bowl. He wondered vaguely what had awakened him, one hand reaching for his sword in case it had been an instinctive reaction to some unseen danger.

There! He thought he saw a flash of red in the pitch darkness, the barest reflection of the scant moonlight coming through the window. Boy was standing in a moment, senses straining for any sign of an intruder. He turned, backed carefully away from the bed until his back touched a stone wall, and then checked all possible areas—_left, right, ahead, up… _Some of Curry's best advice had been to _always look up_, especially when dealing with an unknown Devil Fruit.

Nothing. Boy let himself slide gradually into a sitting position, back still pressed to the freezing stone. As disturbing the thought of Drakula's presence was, he wasn't about to let a healthy night's sleep escape him. He would need it for tomorrow.

And, indeed, there were no further interruptions. Though his sleep was certainly more uneasy than usual, the total lack of blood-sucking madmen was promising. Boy awoke early in the morning (as far as he could tell—most times of day looked the same here), straightened his clothes, and buckled his nameless sword to one hip. Before he could even begin to make his arduous way down the stairs, however, he was stopped by Rogi, carrying a basin of surprisingly warm water and a razor.

"Thir Drakula giveth you hith complimentth and athkth you to pleathe make yourthelf prethentable." He smiled, messily-stitched scars twisting oddly. Boy swallowed, taking a moment to mentally translate the sentence. Then took the basin, hoping the manservant would leave rather than, say, offering to do the shaving for him. Luckily, it was the former.

He had never shaved himself before, but it was true that his face had once more developed a healthy covering of bristles. He opened the curtains over one window, scowled at the dizzying view (maybe it _was _the tallest tower), and found that there was a mirror hanging on one wall of his room. Boy surveyed himself critically, running his fingers over the black stubble. Then, after a moment's quiet contemplation, he set about shaving.

This, as it turned out, was an art all to itself, and it required more subtlety even than swordplay, in Boy's opinion. The nick stung, but it was his pride rather than his flesh that was injured. Practice would be necessary.

But that could wait. Self-conscious in his hastily-groomed wedge of a goatee and wondering whether the knife hanging around his neck could act as a razor, Boy hastened down the staircase. Once, he nearly fell, and proceeded more slowly from then on; the future world's greatest swordsman should not break his neck at the tender age of sixteen.

At the base of the stairwell, total darkness reigned. Boy caught no sense of movement from within it, but guessed at its occupant in any case. "Do you intend to do battle with me now, Drakula, or would you rather I attend breakfast?"

"Whichever you prefer," said the swordsman's voice, from somewhere to Boy's left. "Are you hungry, perhaps?"

"No." This was the truth—he had developed great tolerance for hunger. "Unless, of course, you include hunger for illumination. Surely you would not tilt the scales in your favor by disabling my sight?"

"You mean to say those eyes of yours are incapable of seeing through my darkness?"

"_My" darkness. He seems awfully fond of it._

"I have no Devil Fruit that allows me such skills, and I'm accustomed to fighting in the light," he said, remembering the chandeliers of last night.

"You make your point." There was a faint rustling from the shadows, and a candle's light grew like a bright stain. Boy instantly picked out Drakula's features, and began at that moment to memorize every faint movement Drakula made, trying to pick out a rhythm in his movements.

"What _is _your Devil Fruit?"

His opponent lit candle after candle, moving down the hall as he went. Gone was the table of last night, and the room was huge and open in its absence.

"Do you believe knowing it will give you an advantage?"

"I think it only fair to disclose any supernatural benefits it's given you."

Drakula smiled, looking not at Boy but at the taper burning down in his hand. "Ah, but you know them both already. My extraordinary eyesight, and the unfortunate matter of my defeated enemies never returning to their full capacity for blood."

Boy wasn't entirely convinced by this, but there was a finality to the man's tone that said he would reveal no more.

Still, it couldn't hurt to try one more question…

"And how does that last 'side effect' come about?" If he could avoid it, he planned to.

Drakula gave no immediate answer, and instead drew his sword. Boy hadn't noticed it, concealed as it was underneath the man's stylish black tailcoat. Its dark blade was slender and double-edged, its crossbar short and ornate. Well-crafted and well cared-for. A perfect masterpiece of swordsmanship.

Boy wanted it.

"That secret is known to the villagers at the base of my mountain…though had you asked, I am certain they would have withheld the information." He raised the sword parallel to his body, opened his mouth, and bit into the steel by the hilt. Shocked and more than a little uneasy, Boy kept back any objections as Drakula ran the entirety of the blade through his teeth. Then, having finished, he grimaced, spat on the floor as though to rid his mouth of the taste, and turned his attention back to Boy.

"Are you aware of the insect known as the mosquito?"

Boy, more than ever unsure of his host's sanity, nodded once, staring at the double-edged sword in cagey anticipation. Was there such a thing as a mosquito-mosquito fruit? The name seemed bulkier than those he'd heard up to now.

"When one bites you, its saliva causes your blood to loosen in your veins, easier to draw out of you."

Boy's distaste for the strange ritual deepened immensely. "And now that sword is a mosquito's stinger? Then all I should be concerned about is a great deal of itching once this match is over, hm?"

Drakula Ebons laughed, his voice deepening as he did so. It was the most eerie and guttural noise Boy had ever heard, and it hardly seemed to come from a human being. On edge, he waited for the man to overcome his mirth and speak again. When he finally did, Boy thought he could again see scarlet in those unnaturally black eyes.

"Think of it rather as a bat's fang, child. If you survive—and you ought not to—your life will be spent in a state of permanent anemia." The humor in his face faded a little as he leveled his gaze straight at Boy. "…However, should you win, there is one request I shall make of you—"

"Make this fast," snapped Boy. "I despise being talked down to." And he hated the anxiety swirling in his gut even more…

"Have you a name? I introduced myself, but you did not return the favor."

Boy paused, wondering. Did he have a name? Did he want the name he carried now?

…No.

"Not at the moment," he said, meeting Drakula's gaze with steady golden eyes.

"Very well. In the unlikely event of your victory, I would ask you to take—"

"_In the unlikely event of…" _That did it.

"Save your requests for your last words!" snarled Boy, and attacked.

* * *

**The dialogue can be such a pain to write... Curry, Boy, _and _Drakula all talk like old books. I want someone who speaks normally, seriously! I can't wait for Shanks to turn up!**

**I think we'll skip ahead to Gol D. Roger's execution soon. That's two years from my current storyline, which reminds me... **

**TIMESKIP!**

**Some people think the device is cheap, but I am _so _psyched to see what the crew looks like after two years of training! And Luffy with the Right Hand of the King... *shiver* He will be _most _fearsome in the future. Just three more weeks, dangit...**

**MORE FUN FACTS:**

**Verse 1 of Legend**

**_"They say the angels of the deep_**

**_Drag every sailor down to sleep._**

**_Each promise that he didn't keep_**

**_Is counted on the Blues."_**

**(...Don't look at me. I don't know what it means either!)**

* * *

**Also, when I was looking up ancient insults for Curry and Boy to use (there were a lot of really great ones), I found this stunningly familiar piece of slang...**

**_"Beastly Drunk"_**

**_Definition: "It was an ancient notion that men in their cups exhibited the vicious qualities of beasts. Thomas Nashe (c. 1600) describes seven kinds of drunkards: 'The _ape-drunk, _who leaps and sings; the _lion-drunk_, who is quarrelsome; the _swine-drunk, _who is sleepy and puking; the _sheep-drunk, _wise in his own conceit but unable to speak; the _martin-drunk, _who drinks himself sober again; the _goat-drunk, _who is lascivious; and the _fox-drunk_, who is crafty.'"_**

**Not only is this remarkably similar to something I had Boy thinking in Part something-or-other, but it would make a REALLY AWESOME PROMPT. "Seven drabbles, one for each different kind of beastly drunk." Though I'm not sure how many people would respond, or even how you get something like that going.**

* * *

**Sorry, just thought you needed to know that; on to the SRS business, which you have all been waiting for (or not).**

**REVIEW REPLIES **

**Cat: Yep. I thought he had something to do with all the swords lying around and the tombstone-since it was shaped like his knife...oddly enough, neither of these things had anything to do with it, so far as we know, but the atmosphere was so overwhelmingly _Mihawk _that I was pretty convinced by the time it rolled around in canon.**

**Rom Nom Nom: Um...hrrrm... I guess I might be able to see where you're finding similarities there. Someone else has already compared Curry and his smart-alecking with Wade/Deadpool.**

**Aoihand: Thank you! I've got to get that hat on him ASAP. Seriously. I think it will make him more Mihawk-y. And you're observations on Tashigi are very...deep... O.o There it is! That's my excuse from now on! **

**Tish-tosh, old chap. I _did _borrow a little bit...though you'd have to watch carefully. The first "best swordsman" poster Boy sees is of your Phoenix-fruit user Freya. I noticed you'd given her "greatest" status and then the opportunity was too great to pass up! ;)**

**I always feel like I'm struggling with balancing my serious Mihawk-moments against OP-ish humor, so positive feedback there is a relief. As for the fight scenes, same there-I always feel like they're dragging on far too long...perhaps because I take so long to write them. A-heh. Anyway, Pash and Gai...I didn't even notice the similarities until it was too late, and by then I was having too much fun writing him. *laugh***

**Phalanx: Thanks! Ah, you're right-how could I forget Pell and Bogart? They're both so freakin' _awesome_! And, I mean, _fedora_. Dude. I love those things. **

**Again, the fight scenes worry me a little, so it's good to hear they're easier reading than I thought. My idea of a well-written fight scene has always come from Rihaku's Naruto AU, _Break the World_. It's at fourteen chapters and hasn't updated in years, but whenever I need to put my brain into Good Writing gear after reading a ton of idiotic crackfic, that's where I go.**

**...Uh, but I digress. Pash was so much fun to write-I regret that he couldn't have more screentime.**

**Sir Gar the Bold: Why, thank you! :D I have to agree-I can't remember whether Boy's killed anyone yet, but it would be a shame if he had started with Pash. I don't know if the rest of the names on the posters will be important, but I enjoyed coming up with them immensely. **

**iNaruto . net has fresh updates every week, and spoilers on Tuesday/Wednesday, depending. When all else fails, I go there. In other news, -3D-2Y! AWESOME!**

**TheDML: Thanks! I can definitely sympathize with needing your weekly OP-as I say above, I know a good site. Anyway, I'm so glad you like my story, and I hope this was a good enough fix for the time until the next chapter is finished. **

**Senko-Chan: Thank you! Yes...Roronoanne made me guilty over the fight with Marione, so I found a way to insert it. XD And hopefully we'll get even more from Mihawk soon-we'll probably see him at least once before Zoro leaves Kuraigana.**

**SLER: Oooh, much more compact! Very good.**

**Curry would like you to know: The voice was on no uncertain terms _not _his-how dare you accredit him with such a barbaric outcry? _In the kidneys _indeed. (Dear God, I'm making my characters talk at you...I'm sliding down the path of darkness...)**

**Secondary excuse for Tashigi's lack of headwear: it's her glasses! I now have a solid argument...not that anyone cares. XD Also, believe it or not, there is a reason for Boy's rather unbalanced tally of wins and losses...that to come later. I'm building him up toward something.**

**Huzzah for character development and the people who observe it! As Greed once said, "There's no such thing as no such thing." **

**Yes, the age is very important, especially in comparison to other characters-mainly, Shanks, who is, of course, four years younger. He was _fifteen _when Roger was executed! That's seriously tough.**

**Dadude: Cool name. :) And thanks! It's official, then! Glasses count as headwear! _Testify_! ...I mean, uh, hopefully you enjoyed this chapter too!**

**Lunar Runaway Hiri: Aw, thanks. I like the word totteringly too, even if it isn't really a word-again with the squiggly red line under it. Sometimes Spellchecker can be a pain.**

**Legend is actually a poem that I doodled on the side of some OP fanart or other in study hall. Then my sister put it to this seriously EPIC tune, and it somehow wormed its way into this story. Go figure. I think there are...I dunno, maybe six/seven verses? I can't remember off the top of my head.**

**Roronoanne: YOU REVIEWED! *squeal* Hurray! I was afraid I'd scared you off with hideously bad grammar! It was actually after I read your review that I really buckled down on this chapter, because I wanted to reply so badly. That's usually what it takes. :D Alright, let's see...**

**First off, thank you as usual for your wonderful compliments, and the names took a surprisingly long time anyway-they _are _hard to think of. **

**Ah, the fingertip. Well, humans can actually grow such things back, given time. I once heard the story of a girl who lost half of her pinky to a cigarette shredder...it grew back, nail and all. We really are pretty amazing in some ways, huh?**

**Vielen dank f****ür das Lob-die Umlaute war'n sehr schwert zu schreiben... Ich bin so erleichtert, dass du mich verstand! (** **Übrigens, das neu Schulejahr hat begonnen, und Deutsch ist noch so Spass wie letzt Jahr...)**

**You...**

**You...**

**This...**

**I was so insanely excited to read this! I actually literally jumped up and down for a while, screaming and giggling in joy. That would be simply amazing; I would be really honored if you translated my story into German, especially if you do all you said in your review. :D :D :D And if your German is better than your English...well, as far as I can see, your English is perfect. I have no qualms! Please, carry on as you see fit-I look forward to seeing Subtlety in your language! **

**ApocSM: *bow* Thank you very much! And I totally agree with you; more Mihawk would be most excellent, in canon and out of it. I've really enjoyed making up a past for him so far, and I hope you continue to read and approve! (Also, lovely vocabulary you have there-looks like I'm not the only one who writes like an old book...) **

**No, just kidding! Seriously!**

* * *

**Anyway, if you're still reading this, I'll say it again, because I really can't tell you guys this enough: _thank you thank you thank you _for your reviews, because without the drive to answer you and give you a pleasing story, I don't know if I would still be working on Subtlety. I need your support, and you always give more than enough! THANK YOU!**


	11. Part XI: Name

**Um, wow. Where to start? Well, I removed Part IV, for one thing, so everything from then on has been moved back a numeral. I hope most of you have checked to find out, and if not, I'll just post a notification after this to let everyone know. So, just so everyone gets it, this would have technically been part XII before I removed Part IV, which I decided was pointless and bizarre. Thank you all so much for waiting patiently and especially to those who noted me to ask me quite kindly whether Subtlety was still alive-it's probably thanks to you (and the end of my exams) that I've finally updated! Please, read. I didn't really like the last chapter, and this one is a bit shorter than usual, but understand that I fully intend to continue after this.**

* * *

Chapter XI: Name

_"Of all the possessions of this life fame is the noblest; when the body has sunk into the dust the great name still lives." -Johann Von Schiller_

"Bat-Bat Fruit, Model Vampire."

Steel sang in the air; with every stroke, rushing air made the candles gutter and come treacherously close to going out. Boy lunged, reaching for it, desperate to manage a strike, but the man moved like a snake. This occurred to him as faintly ironic, considering—

"You said—you—wouldn't—_use _it!" he growled, spinning to block a blow from behind. Red eyes regarded him with faint respect from beyond their locked swords.

"And indeed I am not…I simply thought perhaps you might like to know—"

"Shut up!" There was something cruelly irksome about a man who found time to converse with his opponent in the middle of a swordfight. Boy entertained the thought of silencing that bored, sibilant voice forever, and was thoroughly heartened. As Curry would say, if had hadn't run off like a coward, _Onward, with a will!_

And he smiled.

Boy would never be able to say he enjoyed swordplay; not even when he had begun to improve past Curry's abilities had he ever thought of it as something to enjoy. But there was _satisfaction _in the complexity of the footwork, the artwork of a blade… It was no something he had set out to make beautiful, but simply using a sword was, by necessity-

-_grazed his face_—Boy dodged back, defensive-stupid, getting carried away, like some mad poet! He regained balance, watching everything, keeping his eyes on Drakula's movements, searching for the little tics and tells he'd come to see in other swordsmen.

…Nothing.

Nothing! Adrenaline seared in Boy's chest, and he struggled to keep the extra energy from affecting his style; overexcitement could cause jerkiness and loss of concentration. Still, he couldn't keep a slight tremor from reaching the muscles in his neck and shoulders-there seemed to be no gap in Drakula's style, but his movements were simplicity itself. He tested one angle at a time, a mixture of styles and techniques, a flash of steel, but the results were always the same.

A bafflingly invincible man. Boy brought the subtlety of Madame du Chateau back into his mind, and watched, almost disconnected from his movements, as the flourish of his movements shrank to a swift flicker—still no results.

"Ah, you can fence!" He seemed pleased, annoyingly so. Boy thrust straight at the man's heart, and immediately his hand buzzed with the shock of Drakula's parry. He'd been expecting it, and managed a sub-par counter of his own as Drakula brought his sword arcing down over Boy's shoulder. They both backed away for a moment, each still breathing lightly, eyes fixed on each other's faces. Drakula's face was creased with what looked like annoyance—Boy congratulated himself inwardly.

"I can 'fence'…and _you_ can take this seriously," he said, drawing a small circle in the air with the tip of his nameless sword. "I did not come here on a whim, man! If you have some intention of killing me, at least spare me the agony of _waiting_!"

Drakula blinked once, his mouth going slightly slack, and then ducked sharply to one side as Boy's sword shot past one ear. _"Very well-" _

-Boy braced himself, opened his eyes wide, and—

-a web of steel danced in the air between them as Drakula went on the offensive—impressive, but Boy knew it was just another test and he would have _none _of it. He effortlessly conjured a defense that could nullify Boy's best skills, but that didn't fit with the relative mediocrity of his attacks. A _disgrace_. Boy had fought common criminals with more honesty in combat.

There was no time for talking now; he would just have to force Drakula into fighting earnestly…

_Two weeks ago, when his finger was still healing—a man with eyes almost as sharp as his, on an island carpeted with bright fields of red and yellow flowers. The man was shorter than him, and Boy vaguely remembered dark, wavy hair and keen black eyes. And an attack so fearsome—_

_-Well, he won. That was all that mattered. But he remembered too the last words he heard from that swordsman, his speech thick with blood._

"_Learning as you go…and adapting it." An astonished, bloody smile. "You're like a monster. I'll watch for your face on bounty posters."_

He hadn't used the technique since then—the battleground had always been too crowded, the opponent too pathetic to bother with it. Now, though…

He had learned from Curry how to hide his motions, feint, and strike at the best opportunity. Boy himself could now easily recognize a beginner's telegraphing, and certainly conceal his own…but he had a feeling his usual tactics wouldn't be enough to hide the flamboyancy of the technique he wanted to try.

He shifted, testing his muscles, making sure he still had enough energy. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat; he was acutely aware of his contracting lungs, the taut tendons in his hands, the whisper of air as he moved his sword slowly into a neutral position. It was a fight or flight moment, but if Drakula had acquired any instinct whatsoever for Boy's nature, he would certainly know that flight was not an option.

Boy knew this too, and had known it since he first set foot on the island. It was not that he did not fear death, but that if his ambition was to die here, death was necessarily an outcome. He would not turn and run now.

Drakula was waiting, muscles loose, almost _relaxed_. Boy scowled, hating the man's lack of initiative, and then leaned subtly forward, watching for a reaction (there it was, a faint tightening of shoulder and thigh muscles). Left. Right. He tilted softly in either direction, playing a chess game twenty steps ahead of himself, trying to spot an opening.

There.

There?

He surged forward, feinted back, put all his weight into a blow that should have rent a gash in Drakula's gut—

-it hissed harmlessly through cold air, and Boy was left _wide _open, blade raised high in the air—

"_Slow!" _The word snapped out like a striking snake, but even as steel sank into Boy's side he brought his own sword down in a white arc, with all his cold resolve behind it. A push and a hoarse yell of effort, and Drakula flew back, a scarlet line opening from the corner of his jaw to his waist.

The sense of victory was sweet but brief—the wound was shallow, nothing like the heavy blows Boy had felt (_two weeks ago, bright flowers, "flying strikes")_. He cursed under his breath and dashed forward to follow up, aiming for his opponent's heart, but Drakula was already on his feet, something very like awe on his face.

Boy had a feeling it wouldn't last long.

Again, the fierce ring of steel, and their breath clouded the bright metal with white steam as they shook, at a standstill. Boy felt blood seeping down his waist, soaking his clothes. The heat and pain were almost welcome in the chill of the austere stone room, but he felt he could almost count the ounces leaving his veins. _Permanent anemia._

"Young, but with such talent! Who is your teacher, child?"

Boy crushed the faint thrill of pride—condescension? Unacceptable. "The old man sleeping in your stables," he replied through gritted teeth, and threw off the deadlock with a great heave, back muscles stretching as he tried again to catch Drakula by surprise.

No such luck. Instead, a flicker of metal gave him barely enough warning to minimize damage to his left arm. _Two wounds—no, don't think about it._

"The old drunkard?"

"Unbelievable, I know," said Boy softly, trying to conceal his uncertainties. What _was _that? What had he—

Ah.

He was finally taking the fight seriously. Boy realized suddenly that his hands were greasy on the hilt of his sword, sweating and freezing at once. _Bad._

"You seem nervous," Drakula informed him, that faintly accented voice tinted now with amusement. Boy felt fire welling up within him once again at this—_Don't laugh at me! _What a childish motive…

He tried again, and was once again repelled by a rush of untraceable movement. And then Drakula attacked, _really _attacked, and everything vanished for a moment as Boy's reflexes took over.

Pain flared in his chest, shoulder, left leg, and only a fortuitous flail saved his right eye from untimely blindness. Boy retreated, uncoordinated and frustrated, shocked by Drakula's speed. _Watch, watch, watch! _There, he could see a bit of it—_FOCUS! _He blocked, danced, swept forward and added a diagonal slash to his first blood.

And then back again, wary and bleeding. He wasn't foolish enough to push his luck this time, and his body was already searing with pain and trickling with blood. He could see Drakula's nostrils flaring in the guttering light of the candles (_when did they go out?)_. He didn't know much about vampire bats, and even less about the effects of a Bat-Bat Fruit on someone's body. Did a bat have a good sense of smell?

"You avoided almost two fifths of my strikes," said Drakula contemplatively, his white face nearly glowing in the darkness. "And that flying attack earlier…surely that was not a product of your drunken mentor's teachings?"

"Of course not." Boy swallowed, and realized he was out of breath. _No, not good… _"I fought a man who used those techniques."  
"Just by watching…" Drakula shook his head, as though in wonderment. The gesture was one that might have been used to express appreciation at the tricks of an especially talented pet. Boy was not amused.

"But you know… You might have done better to _name _it first."

"I don't see what difference it makes!" That was enough talking for now. Boy didn't give Drakula time to finish his sentiment—the man was supposed to be a swordsman, not a conversationalist, _honestly_.

But Drakula seemed to be confident enough in his skills to keep talking even as he fought, which was _maddening_. "The name defines the move, you see—your footwork is superb!" Unamused, Boy lunged, missed, and almost lost a hand. "Naming one's technique a name holds one to using it, gives the action a finality. Also, the exhalation—"

"_Shut up!" _They had been fighting for maybe ten minutes now, and excruciating pain combined with bloodloss had combined to make Boy irritable and weary. He needed to finish this, and fast…

"I was merely offering advice," said Drakula coolly, arching sharp black eyebrows. "No need for overt hostility."

"Were you expecting _gentility _from the man who challenged you?"

Drakula shifted from foot to foot, "In my day, it was _expected_."

"Your day," said Boy, "is _over_."

"You assume much."  
"I don't lie for the sake of lying. This will by _my _era, and there is no place for you—"

A sword blade sang through the air a hair's breadth from his ear, and Boy found his face inches from Drakula's, transfixed first by the blood-red of his eyes and then by the sword in his chest.

"_I would not say such things if I were you."_

Boy pulled away, stifling terror at the feeling of a punctured lung. Soon, he knew instinctively, his chest would fill with blood. But when Drakula gestured for him to come forward again, there was still only one choice.

* * *

The icy air was thick with the smell of blood. It clogged his clothes, hung from his chin, froze as it trickled down his left leg. They were small wounds for the most part, shallow but bleeding profusely. Blood his body would never recover. He felt small and pale and weak, and hated himself for it.

"I have a keen knowledge of the body's major arteries, boy."

"_Don't call me that!" _His voice clawed its way out of his throat; spitting blood, he forced his shaking limbs into an offensive stance. "As of now, until I _defeat _you, I HAVE NO NAME."

He was a fool. A nameless fool, and one willing to die for the goal of his life.

"I sensed your _haki _earlier," said a voice, cold and far away. "Where has it gone?"

The nameless young man didn't answer, dizzy and shaking. Through watering eyes, he glimpsed white-knuckled hands holding the hilt of a sword as though it was a lifeline. _Who…_

"Let me show you how it _ought _to be done."

And looking up, he thought he saw for a moment a towering black shadow, flickering erratically and swirling with every step Drakula took towards him. Fear coiled in his stomach, climbing up his spine. The sight was unearthly—_hallucination_—and his knees—_get past it_—went weak beneath him—_FIGHT IT!_

…_No…_

Everything went dark.

* * *

The boy, now nameless, thought, _I am going to die._

And perhaps he would have—right there, on the stone floor, but then he heard the laughter. At first, it was only an echo, a whisper beyond the veils of oncoming unconsciousness, but as his delirious brain recognized the sound for what it was, he knew he could _not _fall here. It was not a conscious thought—he was beyond that. But in the darkness still enveloping his vision, _he thought he heard his sword breathing…_

"You thought I would die." He was still on his feet, Drakula standing less than a yard from him. He had been walking, but now he stopped, brows furrowing. _This was unexpected_.

"Give me more credit… I would tell you to at least let me die on my feet, but…" He looked up slowly, listening with almost meditative calm to the breath of all things, and wondered how he looked now—"_You're like a monster..." _ "…I can be a demon too."

He had known it innately for a long time—even as a child-how he could put that sharp resolve behind his eyes to use. But this was on an entirely different level, and had he not been on the brink of death, he doubted he could have reached that level. He wondered if Drakula could now see that black shadow roiling above _his _shoulders, and grinned a fierce crimson smile at the thought.

All this happened in a moment, though it seemed to stretch on for an eternity, and then the fight began again. Part of him felt the pain, but to the rest of his brain, it was only a distant sensation, a detached kind of heat. Boy put the force of his presence, drive, and intimidation into every assault. His muscles wanted to tremble, but for now, willpower kept him steady.

_Be cold, perfect…and they will never laugh at you again._

He spun, knocked aside Drakula's blade—_moving in slow-motion_—with a dazed twist of his wrist, and…struck.

It was like killing a wolf.

* * *

"I would never have imagined it."

"…Of course."  
"You have my respect, b—" He trailed off, eyeing the teenager who had defeated him. "…Nameless one. But so long as you have chosen to discard your name, my last request—"

"Why should I fulfill any request of yours?"

Drakula laughed drily, the noise ending in a throaty, bubbling cough. He folded his hands over his bloodied chest, smiling grimly up at the murky ceiling of his dining hall. "I suppose you have no obligation. But should the inclination take you, I _humbly _request that you carry on my name."

A scowl. "Tch. Your name is _ridiculous_."

Drakula shot him a mildly offended look and moved to prop himself up on his elbows. The movement ended in a pained wince and a fresh flow of blood from the final wound; he lay back, apparently disgruntled by his weakness. "…Very well. It _was_ a _request_, after all."

There was silence for a moment. The nameless young man felt he should have left then, disregarding Drakula's death and his last words, but something about the fearsome architecture of the castle and its owner's cold sophistication… He hadn't disliked the place.

"Very well."  
Drakula started with surprise, craning his neck from his place on the floor to look at his former opponent's face. "You intend to—"

"But I'm going to change it. I don't wanted them thinking I'm _you_."

"Well, you have my permission to—" he paused to cough, red spurting over his already crusted chin. "—_nnkghoff—omit…nnkh…_omit…some of my middle names."  
"Dracule," said the no-longer-nameless boy.

"I beg your _pardon_?"

"That will be my surname." He smiled, wan and faintly amused. "I've never had one before."

"It is…" Drakula grimaced, apparently lost for words. And then he shrugged, closing his eyes. "Perhaps…you were right. This may no longer be my world. Where will the boy with the hawk's eyes go…after this?"

He was running out of breath, close to death.

"Who knows? I've never had much regard for navigation. But I think when the time comes I will search for a sword I once heard of in a song."

"…_Good."_

And he was dead.

Sitting there in the silence of the castle-turned-crypt, the boy who wasn't Boy thought about names.

_The boy with the hawk's eyes._

* * *

Curry was waiting for him outside when he left, and even deigned to catch his protégée before the boy's face hit the ground. Curry hauled one bleeding arm over his shoulders with a minimum of distaste and began to walk, gray eyes fixed on the horizon.

"_Long…walk," _said the kid draped over his shoulders.

"You deem me unworthy of such a journey?" Curry clouted his student over the head with one amiable fist, and spared the resulting spatter of blood on the snow a vaguely surprised glance. "Boy, if I strike you, a strange crimson liquid seems to leak from various orifices. Have you any explanation for this eventuation?"

"_Not…Boy…"_

"You don't say."

One baleful yellow eye turned up to glare at Curry from the shadow of its owner's brow. _"Dracule…Mihawk…"_

Curry considered this; the only sounds were the squeaking of snow under the old man's boots and perhaps the faintest dripping noise as Mihawk's veins released their contents onto the snow.

"…All things considered, I prefer 'Boy'."

Mihawk groaned and struggled to extricate himself from Curry's grasp. He failed and settled back into step, grumbling furiously.

Curry laughed.

* * *

The barber-surgeon in town poured alcohol down Mihawk's throat until he blacked out in a haze of intoxication, and when he woke up his lungs were no longer flooded with blood. Mihawk was amazed at his own luck, and said as much to Curry later.

They were at a bar, drinking as much as they could simply because the townspeople wouldn't stop buying bottles for them. The pain still burning dully in his limbs was lessened by lots of wine, and that coupled with the whiskey apparently used to cleanse his wounds probably meant about a tenth of his bodily fluids were now alcoholic.

Curry laughed at this, and raised his bottle high, shouting an indecipherable toast to something or other. Everyone cheered, so it was probably good. Dracule Mihawk sat back on his stool, resting his elbows on the bar, and yawned up at the ceiling. He was very, _very_ tired. And he probably always would be.

There was no victorious exhilaration in his chest, no cold tingle of pride in his spine. There was pain, yes, and a deep-set sense of satisfaction, but beyond that…nothing. He sank back even further, thinking that for now, satisfaction and a good nap would have to be enough.

"…_Boy! _Boy!"

"For the… Old man, my name is not Boy. And I'm _trying _to _sleep_."

"Indeed not! This is a night of celebration, Boy! Arise and attend, for there are three gifts of mine you must retain from this night, and I would not have you abed for them!"

"'_Abed?'" _Mihawk growled, incredulous. "It's a _bar stool_, Curry."

"Trivialities. Attend!"

"Old man, my eyes. They're open. _I'm watching_."

"And your auditory functions?"

"Ears as well."

"As you say. Then I shall proceed."

And he leapt with all the agility of a goat onto the countertop, rocking back and forth on his heels and calling the rest of the room to attention as well. Mihawk rolled his eyes, not entirely certain he wanted to know what was up the geezer's sleeve this time.

"Ladies of culture and esteemed gentlemen!" Cries of approval from what was probably the roughest, most uncouth population in the entirety of North Blue. Mihawk snorted in spite of himself, letting his head loll back on his shoulders for an unrivaled view up Curry's formidable nose. "I would dare to propose yet another toast!"

Another cheer, this one much longer. Mihawk raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Is that all? Because as gifts go, it is—"

"To my esteemed student, Dracule Mihawk—" (and the "esteemed student" frowned with surprise) "—who has _done surpassingly well_!"

There was only the briefest pause before the approving clamor returned, and Curry, apparently done, dropped down off of the bar and started toward the door, gesturing for Mihawk to follow him. Purely because his brain was occupied still struggling to register that _Curry _had actually paid him a compliment, Mihawk followed.

He didn't say anything. He had a feeling that if he mentioned it, Curry would just find a way to bluster out of it, and honestly it wasn't worth the argument. But this was unprecedented. Bizarre. Curry was usually sparing with compliments to begin with, but "well done" was usually the extent of his praise. "Surpassingly well done" was… Well, clearly the man was drunker than he appeared. And he had actually used the right name (probably for the first and last time).

So, three gifts. That would have been the first—or maybe the first two, since Curry was picky. Mihawk let one corner of his mouth crook upward in a wry smile. It said something about his teacher that calling his student by the right name and saying he had "done surpassingly well" was a gift.

He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he almost missed the turn Curry took into a shabby little store on the corner of a street. He backtracked hurriedly, scouring the storefront for a name—nothing. Interest piqued, he pushed his way through the door, the hinges of which whined mournfully at his touch.

Inside, Curry was pushing absentmindedly through stack after stack of…

"Hats?" said Mihawk, frowning. "You're here to look at-?"

"Allow me to purchase some headgear on your behalf," said Curry, gesturing jovially to the piles ranged around him. "As you can see, your options are pleasingly varied!"

Mihawk stared. Approval, fine. Using his proper name…dubious. But these things could only go so far. "Old man, what do you want?"

"I believe I have clearly stated my intentions; beggar me not with requests of repetition."

Mihawk scoffed. "_You_ buying something for _me_. No, I do believe—"

"Boy. _Select a hat._"

He was deadly serious. And what a ludicrous thing to be serious about. Then again, a hat wouldn't mean much to most people. Only Curry would think of this as a real gift, an auspicious event. Then again, because it meant something to the old man, maybe it really did count.

"Fine," he said, shrugging, and went immediately to one corner of the shop, where something had caught his eye. A dull black hat was perched on a three-foot-tall stack. It was hardly as broad-brimmed as Curry's, its texture dull, and even the silk lining had barely any gloss. But tucked in the ribbon…

_A red feather. _He smiled faintly, dusting off the brim, and pulled it onto his head.

"That may or may not be the most aesthetically displeasing hat on which I have had the misfortune of laying eyes."

"This is it," said Mihawk. "It fits."

"Whoop-ti-_doo_," drawled Curry. "It is a _fedora_. It is a heinous and outrageous crime against fashion, so far as such a thing is possible."  
Mihawk gave him a long, slow look, surveying Curry's own tattered brown hat, stained brown coat, and generally disheveled appearance. Then, wordlessly, he turned to walk to the owner's desk.

It was later. Curry, having expounded upon his general disapproval of Mihawk's behavior and taste in hats, had lapsed into a resentful silence, every second of which Mihawk treasured. However, all good things must come to an end, and as they neared the waterfront where their stolen boat was still moored, Curry apparently felt the need to open his mouth again.

"As for the third gift, Boy, we have now arrived at the place of its giving."

Mihawk looked around, arms folded over his chest. "Excellent. Good."  
"And now we part."

A pause.

"…I beg your pardon?" He blinked several times. "No, actually, I don't. Pardon not necessary. Where am I going?"

"Absolutely nowhere," said Curry beatifically, and left it at that. It seemed nothing else need to be said. Unfortunately, Mihawk was still confused and annoyed; clarification was necessary.

"And the 'third gift' you mentioned…?"

"This is she," Curry informed him, striding purposefully towards the boat. "Fare thee well, Boy. Perhaps one fond day we shall meet again, and reminisce over the many times my fist met your very thick skull. However, 'till then—"

"Not that I'm especially aggrieved to see the last of you, but you happen to be leaving me without a mode of transportation _or _a teacher," Boy snapped, shuddering inwardly at the thought of staying on Over-forest Island any longer.

Another, longer moment of silence. In the distance, with excellent theatrical timing, a wolf howled.

"Boy," said Curry, and Mihawk took one step forward before realizing he had inadvertently answered to the name and retreating again, vexed.

"…What."

The old man spun, and the silvery ring of metal told Boy exactly what his intention was even before the saber that had nicked him so many times flashed towards his face—

-only to be smacked casually away—

Mihawk found himself in a fighting stance, knees crooked, one hand still gripping the scabbard at his left hip. The other was extended to his right, and his nameless sword gleamed in the moonlight. Curry's saber skittered over the cobblestones, somewhere in the shadows. They stood like that for a moment, Curry massaging his sword hand, Mihawk wide-eyed and wary. Then Curry turned, went to recover his sword, and, having re-sheathed it, went aboard the boat and cast off.

And that was how it happened; he had made his point.

Mihawk did not stay to watch his erstwhile teacher vanish into the night. He was not that kind of person. Instead, he put his new hat on his head and turned his back, raising one hand briefly in salute. Out in the blackness, a voice launched into song.

Mihawk drank a bit more, thinking things over, and then went to bed in the cleanest inn-house offered.

It was not very clean.

In the morning, he was given a new shirt for free, as savior of the village, and, since no one on the island seemed to possess the skills to build a real boat or even a raft, he went to the undertaker. Several of the coffins seemed seaworthy, but after a few tests, only one proved to suit his needs.

He departed in haste, with no great regard for direction but as many provisions as would allow the coffin to float. After a battle like that, floating on the open sea should have seemed a stupid way to risk his life, but it was also, strangely enough, less worrying. Also, he could sleep for as long as he liked with no chance of interruptions from rude old men.

But whenever he wasn'tsleeping, he did end up talking to himself more than was strictly normal.

* * *

Another Marine dispatch reached Over-forest Island a week later on official business. While the bright new red-haired private was off gathering information on the men who had disappeared recently, the captain learned of the fate of one, Drakula Ebons. Scouts were recalled; a serious meeting was convened, mainly concerning the legacy of said man (ten generations of classically-trained swordsmen), the number of zeroes on the end of his most recent bounty posters (a lot), and the name of the man who had defeated him.

After a while, they finished and the new private was summoned.

"Private…Bloomer. Bolmer. Belmer. B—"

"Close enough, sir." She waved his stumbling aside. "You'll get it sometime."

He frowned at her. "I need to contact HQ, Private."

A den-den-mushi was produced for the captain's use. And this is how news travels between Marines…

_Fast._

* * *

He didn't really notice it at first—after all, if one spends enough time at sea, especially without a subscription to the news, one tends to lose track of current events. He did notice the sharp increase in the amount of people starting fights with him, most of which started with the puzzling sentiment that they were going to "take his head". He only really began to wonder about the meaning of this threat when one of the men he defeated fell to the ground groaning about "all that money".

A short and (mostly) friendly line of questioning led him to a wall of bounty posters in the local Marine office, where his own face glared back at him, front and center. Mihawk only remembered to look at the actual bounty after he had finished wondering in bewilderment _how _these people had gotten his picture.

But the bounty…

Well, the bounty explained why, thirty seconds after he entered the office, every Marine in the place got to their feet and jumped him. He liked to imagine they regretted that later.

It certainly explained more than it didn't. Mihawk, who was still getting used to his new name, was surprised by the pleasure he derived from seeing _**Dracule Mihawk **_printed boldly below his photo. And, yes, the money underneath that…

Part of him had been secretly hoping for more. But his rational mind had been expecting less. It was a good balance, and it would increase _soon_—he would make sure of that.

North Blue lost his interest quickly. Rumors said there were more Marines in West Blue, so West Blue was his next destination. As it turned out, however, this was easier said than done—North and West Blue were separated by the Grandline, which Mihawk was still somewhat loathe to enter again. Eventually, though, after several weeks of wandering, he discovered a man living near Reverse Mountain with an immense seagull. The rates were ridiculous, but threatening worked just as well, so in all honesty the worst memory of the whole ordeal was the ride itself.

There would be no more flying.

Ever.

West Blue proved to be a most profitable area indeed—in terms of experience, at least. The life of an outlaw proved to be somewhat lacking in payment, especially when one had absolutely no interest in taking money from terrified peasants. Of course, sometimes they felt the need to throw their valuables at him regardless, and he honestly didn't have the energy to refuse.

The black fedora served him well; in North and West Blue, it was his trademark, though the first thing everyone noticed was his eyes. In East and South Blue, he was a rumor, and for the moment he intended it to stay so. East Blue was, by all accounts, the most peaceful of the four seas. It was also, he deduced on one long, especially boring day, the place of his birth. Mihawk had no place with either peace or his birthplace—therefore, East Blue was last on his mental list of priorities.

And yet that was where he found himself a year and a half later, stowing away in his coffin in the hold of a merchant ship bound for Loguetown. The coffin was actually quite comfortable, especially with a blanket folded under his head and his sword stowed to one side, where he wouldn't end up lying on it. The strategy was remarkably plausible, as no one opens a coffin if they can help it.

Above him, footsteps thumped across the upper decks and back, resonating in the cavernous spaces around him. The ship swayed; waves slapped at the sides. In the darkness and warmth of his enclosed space, Mihawk breathed out heavily through his nose and wondered why exactly he felt the need to attend Gold Roger's execution.

* * *

Usually, if he had stowed away, leaving his illegal transport would be more problematic. This time, however, there was a clamor above-decks and a pensive moment of listening told him the only pulses on board belonged to him, two dogs, and numerous rats. The crew had slid all the bolts through the trapdoors, and Mihawk mentally commended them for their attentiveness before slicing messily through each in turn.

The sky was clear above, luminous with sunshine and marred only by the occasional perfectly white cloud scudding along. On the other hand… A brief glance to the north told him it wouldn't be long before all hell broke loose. Another day to go without the hat.

Mihawk adjusted the coffin over his shoulder and eyed the seaside shop fronts critically, looking for the best wall to lean it against. Once he had found one and arranged the coffin to his liking, he placed his hat carefully inside and made sure the lid was tightly closed.

The streets were empty, and he knew why.

It was happening.

Time to hurry.

He had thought perhaps the best way to find the event would be to follow the noise of the crowd, but in truth it was pure luck, and when he arrived, the massive, white-paved square was completely silent. Mihawk insinuated himself into the middle of the throng through subtle and not-so-subtle hints of _haki_, which, he had discovered, had many practical applications. Occasionally, though, someone behind him would start foaming at the mouth and collapse (_Just keep walking, you had nothing to do with this…)_

…And those incidents could be explained partially by the stifling heat. The sunny weather had seemed tolerable in the open air, but surrounded by what seemed to be literally hundreds of people, Mihawk had begun to sweat uncomfortably under his high collar.

"_Where is he?"_

Some idiot in the crowd—

"_Bring out the King of the Pirates!"_

"_Where's Gold Roger?"_

And soon they were _all _at it, jostling and yelling and sweating… Mihawk barely restrained the urge to knock everyone within five feet of him unconscious, and around the time some bold pickpocket made a grab for the knife around his neck, he was prepared to—

"_THERE!"_

The pickpocket withdrew—Mihawk spared a moment to be annoyed at his escape—and then all heads turned to see the Pirate King. Necks craned, hands raised, and hushed whispers spread in ripples away from the approaching pirate.

Even Mihawk's eyes had difficulty picking out glimpses through the wildly moving crowd, and then, as Gold Roger came within eyesight, everything seemed to calm down, somehow. Mihawk, taller even than grown men at age nineteen, could now easily see past the heads of the people standing in front of him.

Never had a man going to his death ever proceeded with more dignity or…_cheerfulness_. He could only see the Pirate King's face for a split second, but it was almost maddening. That broad, fierce white smile, the great pride with which Gold Roger carried himself... One felt instinctively that the man could not possibly _comprehend _the fate he faced. But there was the scaffold, and something in his eyes said—

_I'm laughing_—

And for that split second, Mihawk understood _why _Gold Roger was called the Pirate King. And then he lost the feeling, but the awe remained. Ordinarily, he would have issues with feeling such regard for some man he'd never met, but as it was Roger's last day on earth, he allowed the sense of respect growing within him to stay.

The silence had returned, the breathless air of waiting that had been present when Mihawk arrived. The combined pressure of everyone's focus and the sun's unforgiving eye had given the square all the closeness and heat of a sauna.

Somewhere in the distance, a baby began to cry and went silence, probably hushed by a nervous parent. Gold Roger mounted the scaffold, and Mihawk imagined what a view the man must have, surveying the population of Loguetown as though they had come to see his coronation rather than his execution. And then he _sat_, cross-legged, casual. The men standing on either side of him didn't seem to know what to make of this, both of them looking nervously to some unseen commander.

A Marine's voice barked out harsh, wordless orders; the executioners raised their blades. White light blazed as the steel caught the sun's light, leaving green trails of afterimage seared into Mihawk's vision. The tension in the air was thicker than blood.

"_Hey, Pirate King!"_

The crowd gasped en masse—even the executioners seemed to flinch at the yell. Heads turned frantically, searching for the source of the commotion. Gold Roger raised his head even as death wavered above him, grinning down at all of them.

"_What about your treasure? Where's the One Piece?"_

Roger straightened even further, the folds of his scarlet coat shifting around him, and even from the street, Mihawk could see him inhale deeply for a moment before his voiced exploded in the open spaces, bouncing off of buildings and etching its words into the memories of every listener.

"_My treasure?" _Bated breath—the world was watching, and Mihawk found himself near the center of it, standing at a universal crossroads with no control over- _"If you want it, go search for it! I left it all in _that place_!" _

-and on that last word, the order was given, the pirate king executed. But even as storm clouds roiled above and the Marines had their victory, the damage was done. And even as the rain poured down in sheets, the people kept cheering.

_And it was the beginning of the Great Pirate Age._

* * *

**Okay, before anyone asks, let's get it straight that the coffin is not meant to be the coffin-shaped boat we see him in later. It's temporary. Also, yes, I just gave him a fedora. It won't stick around either, even though I actually think they're awesome-Curry's opinions are not mine!**

**Speaking of which: I absolutely loved Curry, I have to say. I loved writing him and his interactions with Boy and his weirdness. Many of you have been very complimentary about him as an OC, which touched me, seriously. But he had to go, because we're entering canon now and Boy isn't Boy anymore. I don't want to get attached to an OC, because I've seen people who turn their OCs into big plot devices, and ****I don't want to put all Mihawk's talent on the old man's shoulders. And that's why.**

**REVIEW REPLIES!**

**Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, _faaaaar _away, I posted the last chapter and you guys responded...enthusiastically. I now have over one hundred on this story, which boggles my mind because the chapters are so freakin' long I would almost certainly not have ever had the patience to _read _it myself. So give yourselves all a cheer and a pat on the back.**

**Gazer: And can _I_ tell you how happy it makes me to see you've reviewed? I mean, I guess you probably don't even remember what you said. But here goes. Conjuring an image in someone's head without going overboard always makes me nervous-glad to have your approval! XD As you can see, I have kind of explained away Mihawk's paleness and usual laziness with this, though I'm guessing that canonically it's just the way he is, ha! Hope you enjoyed this chapter too, short as it was. Thanks so much! **

**As4mi: Aw, thank you-I love to make someone's day! As for the insults, well...I did wonder whether they were a bit out of the blue, but I'm glad you got a laugh out of them. And it would make me most joyous, should you draw Drakula. :D Und auf Deutsch: Hallo, du! Oder...Sie? Wie formal soll' ich im Internet sein? 'Tschuldigung, meine Deutsch ist oft schlecht... XD Ich hoffe, dass dieses Kapitel auch so lustig wie das letzte war!**

**Rom Nom Nom: Hope you did well on your test (I'm assuming it has come and gone), and maybe I can keep upping this story's vocabulary without Curry... Maybe. Anyway, Boy/Mihawk has definitely outgrown his teacher-that was indeed my intent. And though _haki _was introduced as just a vague concept in this chapter, I do intend to delve more deeply into the different colors as he continues to mature. As we'll see in the next chapter, he has hardly reached the peak of his evolution. ;)**

**TheDML: Well, here's a bit more for you...about, eh, half a year later? Or something. I haven't checked yet-I'm too afraid. And pervyness is only to be expected around Mihawk-I mean, he practically invites it, walking around in that shirt. It's got to be a crime somewhere to be that hot... But I digress. XD**

**Phalanx: Recently I ran across a string of debates with your name on them in the reviews of a story that's been bothering me for a while now. Just thought I'd mention that my respect for you has greatly increased, which is saying something. :D Anyway! We took care of the venison/veal debacle (thank you for making sure I didn't embarrass myself), and now I get to properly say thanks and all! Indeed, while I've been working hard to make the plot advance, Boy has for the most part ignored his prodigious improvement. XD So I had him finally get it in this chapter. **

**MissDilemma: Thanks for approving Curry, it means a lot! :) And moving on to your later reviews: apologies for the length and Curry's dialogue-trust me, I can sympathize. Sometimes I'll be up at three in the morning, writing one of his sentences...and when I look at what I just wrote, I'm like, _"What does this even mean?" _Um, but anyway, thanks for the thumbs-up on my spelling and whatnot-I give it my all, in true Shounen style! *heroic pose* Or something! **

**You should save up any and all impressive words you remember from your late-night Subtlety readings and unleash them on some special occasion. Yeah, that would be epic...  
**

**But it was too late-she had already named him after some random vampire guy. D: Well, if Oda every gives us his bounty poster, I guess we'll find out whether it's Dracule or Juracule, huh? And: you actually liked Part IV? Apologies. It did confuse some people, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it had a few fans. Thank you anyway-I'll make up for it somehow, because you've been so very kind to me. :D**

**SLER: Well, hello again! Long time no...um... Well, long time, anyway. Hopefully you clicked on this despite the whole "Part IV is missing" thing, and are now reading this reply. :D I kind of miss Boy myself, and having him screw up and act more like a kid sometimes, but from now on I'm going to try and develop his personality in such a way that I can keep the humor a bit of his younger self without losing sight of where I'm going... **

**Yes, it was the perfect opportunity to begin developing his macabre sense of fashion! I can now elaborate on that to my heart's content. :D Unfortunately, we can only assume he shaved off the goatee between that fight and his attendance at Roger's execution, because in Strong World 0, he is basically facial-hair-less. But anyway, there's the name for you! I didn't want him to totally steal Drakula's name, so I decided he would just have to think it was tacky and change it up a bit. **

**yumeniai: I guess it was a Zoan fruit, wasn't it? I totally forgot it had to be, because I didn't give Drakula a chance to transform-what a pity! I'll bet the Bat-Bat Fruit doesn't even exist in canon, but ssshhh, don't tell anyone. As for character similarities to Zoro... Urr, I have no excuse, but I didn't do it on purpose. Firibastel's bandanna would be more like a headband than the way Zoro has his wrapped, and a brighter, more obnoxious green. And I think dojo-defeating is just a thing some people do. Don't check my facts, I have no idea what I'm talking about! XD Thanks, dude (or dudette, depending).**

**cinnamon-shake: Thank yooo~uu! Does this count as "soon"? ...No? I thought not. Ah, well, I'm sure you have other things you do with your life, and if you didn't I would be kind of worried. So anyway. Fellow Terry Pratchett fan! :D Heya! Nice to have someone get my obscure references-I think that makes about three of my reviewers who've noticed them. I don't think there are any here, though-Rogi conveniently vanished because he bothered me, heheh... **

**All Nightmare Long: Hurray, my poetry has had an effect on someone! That's new and different... Also, Kaku. Baseball cap. Gotcha. ;D Thanks for taking the time to review!**

**Japanese Pun: Just wanted to say thanks very much and I love your username. :D**

**RhyssaFireheart: Aw, someone's reading my stuff during the lulls in their workday? I should probably tell you to do important things instead, but that actually just makes me weirdly happy! *laugh* Thanks a lot-believability was a big worry up until now, but things should get easier now that I'm into canon. I feel like I've graduated!**

**GeckoMoriaShadowLord: Hey, it's you again! Sorry about the reply wait-it's a totally awesome review and I've never been less bothered by the idea of being stalked. I don't really know what my "style" is, but I'm glad you like it, cos it always feels like slogging through mud while I'm writing. Stuff like this is what keeps me going when I feel like I'm never gonna update again, so I really appreciate it. Thanks so much! **

**SilverRainFalls: Thank you! Hey, you turned up relatively recently, so hopefully you didn't have time to wonder whether this fic was dead! That's good, I think... XD I don't know why I picked Mihawk...probably because he's such a mystery and also a bit of a weirdo. As for his eyesight, well... I was thinking at first it would be natural, because he's just that awesome, but later (_after _I've done a little more research into _haki_), I might bring that into it. If it's plausible, I'm all over it.**

**Thank you all for giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling and waiting so long for this stupid thing. :3**** You guys are brilliant!**


	12. Part XII: Resolve

******Things you need to know: ** Again, I removed Part IX, so everything after that has been moved back a numeral! If you feel like you've missed something, go back a chapter and finish Boy's fight with Drakula. ******And I changed the summary! I liked the penguins, but with the introduction of the Great Pirate Age, I felt I had to update it. Mihawk's taking a step forward, so the story must as well. **

****** ALSO, if you thought Mihawk became the world's greatest swordsman last chapter, he didn't. That was a mistyping on my part and the inconsistency has been removed thanks to someone's quick review action, which I greatly appreciate.  
**

**And she updated only three months later! This is pretty good time for me, guys, you have to admit! This chapter flowed a lot better than the last one, especially since I got to introduce a canon character who will figure big into the rest of Subtlety. And a couple of OCS, who are, once again, at you guys' mercy. I submit them for your approval.**

**I realized after finishing the Part XI that I've written Roger's death THREE TIMES now. What the heck?**

* * *

Part XII: Resolve

_"Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind." -Leonardo da Vinci_ _(1452 - 1519)_

When the Pirate King's life was extinguished, Mihawk felt as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and gasped faintly as cheers rose around him. _A man with a presence so great that its absence leaves a vacuum_. The thought that such a man had just allowed his own execution seemed momentarily terrifying—Mihawk wondered again just what the Pirate King had been thinking.

Around him, the crowd had begun to disperse. Some, dressed in the unremarkable clothes of local citizens, seemed to wander aimlessly, unheeding of the rain now sheeting down, speaking to each other in voices muffled by the storm. Others, apparently more aware of their surroundings, had begun to rush for their houses or whatever shelter nearby buildings offered. And others…

For some reason, Mihawk found it easy to spot them in the crowd, despite the water warping his vision and clinging to his eyelashes. They were the ones dressed more gaudily, either standing stock-still, staring up at where Roger's blood seeped through the slats of the scaffold, or heading away with drive and purpose. Some went in groups, one leading the way with a beckoning hand in the air, and all of those leaving were heading towards the sea.

Towards the One Piece.

Mihawk knew instinctively that they were pirates. Logically, it made no sense for pirates to attend such a high-security event—the risk ought to have been greater than anyone cared to take on. But part of him knew it meant something for the outlaws to witness this execution, and, more importantly, to hear that speech. And he could see them, scattered throughout the crowd. He watched as, one by one, the pirates left standing like statues began to come to life, turning away and following their brethren to the ports.

There was one pirate, however, who caught his attention and held it. Mihawk had to pause and study him for a moment as to the reason why, but it soon became clear. There was something flashing at his side, a glimpse of steel whose brief reflection of a streak of lightning had attracted his eye.

A swordsman. It was difficult to discern any details through the rain, but even from a hundred or so feet away, one feature was clearly visible: a broad-brimmed straw hat with a scarlet ribbon. He had a hat.

The excitement of the speech, still electric in the air, seemed to have left Mihawk with his own sense of adventure, much as he preferred not to show such things. With no vessel sturdy enough to carry him through the Grand Line (he would remedy that later), his only outlet currently was a good fight.

_But this is East Blue. "Good" is a relative term._

_Shut up._

He started towards the immobile pirate, one hand going to the hilt of the nameless sword that had served him for so long. "Hey, you!"

No response. Clearly this one had been more affected by the execution than most. Mihawk thought for a second he saw the rain-blurred figure's shoulders shaking, but as he drew closer the pirate turned and his face was placid, albeit mournful.

"…You talking to me?"

On closer inspection, he couldn't be older than seventeen. Mihawk was on the verge of reconsidering and even opened his mouth to drop a careless excuse when he was blindsided by a shockingly white smile.

"Huh…I've been standing here for a while, haven't I? Wanna go get a drink, kid?"

Mihawk drew himself up, affronted. "_Kid_? I am _nineteen_, and you're—"

"Fifteen," said the boy, a little less cheerful now as he removed his straw hat and inspected it absentmindedly. "Going on sixteen. Gonna get myself a proper crew right away, though."

"…Right," said Mihawk, a little bit unsure of where this was going.

"First _this _and then that damn clown running off like he can make it on his own…" muttered the boy, apparently to himself as it did little but bewilder Mihawk further. Then he blinked, jammed the hat back on his head, and looked brightly up at Mihawk through a fringe of hair red enough to rival the hat's ribbon. "So, you were saying—about that drink?"

"You were the one saying that," Mihawk corrected, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the kid's wild see-saw of emotions. "I think there's something wrong with you."  
"No, no." The pirate clapped one sympathetic hand on his shoulder, which Mihawk instantly shook off with alarm. His new acquaintance seemed unperturbed by this and continued, "There is something wrong with _you_, my friend! You look like you've eaten a lemon." He paused, squinting, considering, up at Mihawk's increasingly stiff expression. "…or two. It's decided. You're gonna buy us both beers."

"Why would I do that?" snapped Mihawk, and slid his sword a half an inch from its sheath with one thumb. "I only started talking to you because I wanted to fight you."

Silence, save for he hiss and slap of rain. As a white flash on the horizon brought the pirate's face into sharper relief, Mihawk saw realization blooming over his dripping face. _Now _he understood—and Mihawk couldn't help the beginnings of a fierce smile as he prepared to draw and do battle—

"Do I owe you, then?"

"I know it's—" He paused. "What?"

"No? Urr…I've ticked off a lot of people in the past… You gotta remind me, my friend, I'm a little short of memory right now."  
"I'm challenging you!"

"At least tell me how much I owe you, then!" the boy said, laughing ruefully. "Seem to end up owing a lot of people…a lot of money."  
"One swordsman to another," Mihawk ground out, teeth gritted around the words, "I am _requesting _that you do battle with me. Though the longer you keep acting like a total imbecile, the closer I might get to making that a _demand_."  
"A wha—a swordsm—a… Oh, this old thing?" The boy patted the sword's hilt fondly. "Aw, I've been in fights with it, but I'm not really a _swordsman_, y'know? It's like…I dunno, a hobby or something."

"You are an insult to the art," said Mihawk, his voice flat with disbelief.

"Don't do much painting either. Hey, about that drink—"

"That request is now officially a demand."

"…I what? Did we talk about this before?"  
_Iai_.

The move was so familiar by then that it was almost comfortable, even in the pouring rain like this. Mihawk settled momentarily into his finishing stance, enjoying the feeling of a technique mastered, and then frowned, replaying the split-second of movement in his head. _Form—correct. Footwork—a little sloppier than usual but functional. And I wanted to take a piece off that stupid hat, but…_

…He had no memory of making contact with anything. Mihawk spun on his heel to stare again at the red-haired boy, trying to keep any hint of accusation out of his expression.

"Careful, there…you just barely missed my hat," the pirate told him, eyes wide, mouth twitching into a frown. "It's been through…a lot."

Mihawk sensed a very long story in the hesitation, but he had no intention of asking the boy to elaborate. "How did you dodge that?"

"I think you're aim's off," said his opponent—if he could indeed be considered as such. "Maybe you should—"

"Shut up!" Alright, if the hat was the only way to make this brat serious, so be it. Mihawk dodged forward, pleased to find that though the weight of his now-sopping clothes certainly required more effort than usual, his agility was more or less unchanged. He feinted, as though for a proper attack to the boy's stomach, and then, as the pirate was arching away from the blade, Mihawk brought it up towards the brim of the hat. Water flew from both of them in a flurry of movement—this kid was quick, but not quite quick enough.

Mihawk waited at a distance, mainly out of curiosity, as one hand reached tentatively up to the hat and brushed the woven straw. When it reached the inch-deep slice, the hand froze, fingers examining the rent as one might a flesh wound.

There was a long moment of relative silence as Mihawk waited, breath inadvertently held, for a reaction. Then the boy smiled again, perhaps a little less genuinely this time, and said, "…Well, it's been through a lot worse."  
"Not after I'm through with it," Mihawk told him, wondering even as he said it exactly what it was about the hat that was so special to this peculiar pirate boy.

Apparently, whatever the reason, it was strong enough to invoke his fighting spirit. That daft face hardened into an expression wholly separate from any Mihawk had seen on it so far, and the boy actually put both hands to the cutlass at his waist.

"That's _low_," he said, drawing the swords slowly as though it was against his better judgment. "You know, usually I'm pretty easy-going about this kind of stuff…people can do just about anything they like to me so long as they don't mess with my friends. But until I get my own crew, this—" he gestured to the hat, "—is all I got left."

"Nicely said," Mihawk drawled, wondering if the sarcasm would even register with the younger boy. "Now, why don't you show me what you can do?"

"This is not a good time," said the redhead, looking almost regretful as he leveled his sword at Mihawk. "But if you're going to be like that…"

"Excellent," said Mihawk, and followed suit. This boy…

…_this boy looks familiar._

"What's your name?" he said, searching vague flickers of memories. _A worn face, a poster—the red hair, but without the hat—_

Surely he didn't have a bounty.

_Surely_.

The boy pursed his lips, apparently considering the question. Then he looked straight into Mihawk's eyes with no semblance of surprise at their color and said, "No. Don't think I will."

"What?"

"You're kinda rude and you went for my hat just so you could fight me. If I lose, I'll tell you."

"If I—" Mihawk, strangled by his outrage and inexplicably vexed by the pirate's sudden change of character, decided on the spot that it would be best not to waste his time arguing over the idiot's name.

How important could it be, after all?

Thirty seconds later, Mihawk was on his back in the rain, his head ringing, a long wound streaming crimson from his left shoulder to his hip. He felt as though the tendons in the crook of his right elbow had been severed, and the same slice had bitten into his side as well. There was a moment of ungainly panic when the bitter taste of blood flooded his throat, and then he realized he had bitten his tongue. So…no internal damage (so far as he knew).

He rolled awkwardly over, bracing himself with one shaking arm, and spat into the gurgling contents of the roadside gutter. Blood, phlegm and bile ran with the copious rainwater. For a moment he lay there, thoughtless, staring at the rushing stream as though in a trance. Then, after what seemed like an eternity in the endless downpour, the faintest blur of motion caught his eye. Mihawk stared at the hand extended to him, wary and still burning with adrenaline. Was this some new threat?

But as it turned out, the pirate boy seemed to think the fight was over. He flexed his fingers, and Mihawk, turning his head to glare up at him, wondered how someone so open-faced could possibly be so unreadable. But this…this wasn't…

"I don't halt my fights simply because I've fallen over," he growled, shifting into a crouch. "Just because you—it doesn't _matter _whether there is a difference in skill. And there isn't one. That's my swordsmanship, understand? We're going to continue until one of us goes down for good."

"But I'm not a swordsman," said the kid. "Remember? It's like a hobby. You just attacked me 'cuz you felt like a fight. And I get that feeling, but unless you _really _want me to kick your—"

"Fine," said Mihawk. He felt somehow that this was giving in too easily, but honestly the boy's reasoning was the kind he'd lived his life by—only those who truly considered themselves swordsmen were worth fighting. And he was suddenly very tired. Against his better judgment, he took the sun-browned hand and hauled himself to his feet, groaning as his injuries throbbed.

"Now, let's go get that drink! I'm Shanks, by the way! Red-hair Shanks, that's what it says on my poster."

"…I thought you weren't going to tell me if I—" Mihawk stopped himself, cursing his mouth for talking without permission. _He has a poster, he has a _bounty poster_… _He was _not _going to ask about the bounty. Absolutely not.

"Well, we called it off. And I feel better now. You want beer?"

"Wine," said Mihawk, shaking his head in disbelief. Shanks was right—he wasn't a swordsman.

He was a natural disaster.

* * *

Mihawk hated alcohol.

Honestly, truly. Wine was better than beer—at least, he felt more elegant drinking it—but ever since the fight on Over-forest island, more than a cup or two made his head spin. Shanks, on the other hand, was a prolific drinker, and the jovial, balding man behind the bar seemed to have no problem with serving copious amounts of beer to fifteen-year-olds. Mihawk, not to be outdone at this as well, took a sip every time Shanks quaffed a mouthful, and found himself dizzyingly ill by the third round.

"Lightweight!" crowed Shanks.

"I hate you."

"Yeah, whatever." He slammed his empty tankard down on the bar with such extreme force that the counter rattled, grinning ferociously. "Gimme another, man!"

"Right up, kid!" The bartender's spirits seemed just as high as the rest of the crowd—everyone was still buzzing with Roger's speech, though whether with terror or excitement was unclear. It was a bizarre atmosphere, and it was not improving Mihawk's outlook on life. He watched sourly as Shanks downed another pint or so to the encouraging chanting of the crowd.

"So," he said dully, "you said that hat has 'been through a lot'."  
Shanks bared his teeth in the same blinding smile he'd showed before. "Aw yeah! You have _no _idea!"

"I've been on the Grand Line," said Mihawk, affronted. "I shouldn't think any surprises are in store for me just because—"

Shanks had begun to exhibit a worrying proclivity for interrupting. This time it wasn't even a coherent statement, just a kind of disbelieving roar that quickly turned into an uncontrollable fit of laughter—like _"…_" …Et cetera.

"_What_?" Mihawk snapped, and then groaned and pressed his forehead to the bar as pain pierced his skull. The bar's owner had kindly given them a heap of his old clothes for use as bandages, and even boiled them. Apparently, Loguetown was in a generous mood.

"_On the Grand Line_…does not…_nearly_ cover it!" Shanks managed between guffaws.

Mihawk was strongly reminded of a certain old man's hearty mockery, and managed one of his keenest death-glares out of the corner of his eye. This did not appear to deter Shanks, though he did seem to become somewhat calmer, settling forward with his elbows on the counter to grin knowingly at his new "drinking buddy".

"This hat," he said, touching the brim with, again, that strangely respectful attitude, "has been to the New World."

Mihawk thought he'd heard the term before and took a guess. "The other side of the Red Line at the end of the—"

"That's the place!" said Shanks, interrupting. Again. "And around the world, my friend. Around the world."

Mihawk was about to protest at the number of times Shanks had called him _my friend _in the past half hour, but then the implications of the sentence came home to him. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, he saw the kid in a new light.

For a second.

And then the wonder and shock was replaced with disbelief and he said, "You were part of Gold R—"

"_Not so loud,_" hissed Shanks, in a stage whisper that Mihawk felt was loud enough itself to carry to every corner of the room. He had the look of someone who had just realized he'd said more than was appropriate, but he needn't have worried—the clamor had yet to die down.

"Would you stop interrupting me?" he grumbled, waving one loose-jointed hand at Shanks. "I'm not going to ask you to tell me the tales of your adventures or something idiotic like that. I've had enough of long-winded men."

"Long-winded?" Shanks chuckled reminiscently. "I've known some guys like that! I mean, the Captain, for instance—you shoulda heard him after he finished a pot of beans!"

Mihawk covered his head with his hands, turning his face back to the counter. "Why am I sitting next to you?" he groaned, his voice muffled.

"'Cuz it was my idea to go drinking!"

"I still hate you."  
"Whatever! Hey. _Hey_."

Mihawk chanced a look up. Shanks was staring intently at him, like a stupid man who believes he has had a very smart idea. Not a good sign.

"…What."  
"You should join my crew."

"No."

"Okay."

Mihawk mumbled wordless fury into the beer-stained wood a hair's-width from his nose and wondered how on earth he'd ended up in the company of such a ridiculous person.

"Well, if you're planning on getting your own crew and going out on the Line again—like I am—I can give you some helpful tips!"

"Ugh," said Mihawk.

"Hey, I know about some pretty crazy monsters…weird things that happen on the different season islands…oh, and all the big-name pirates!" Mihawk raised his head a little at this, interest piquing in spite of himself.

"Is that so?"

"'Course! You name 'em, we've fought 'em!" A wolfish smile flashed across Shanks' face. "Golden Lion Shiki, Whitebeard…it was _fierce_."

"Red-hair," said Mihawk, hoping the kid would listen if he used the title. It seemed to work, but there was no telling when Shanks would start talking again, so Mihawk continued before he could acknowledge. "Do you know who the greatest swordsman in the world is?"

"Yeah," said Shanks, serious and unblinking. He seemed to receive the question as though the answer was common knowledge, which infuriated Mihawk further—he had been searching for a description, a poster, or at least a name for years now, with no result. And now this red-headed, preposterous, under-aged alcoholic…

…Well, it was maddening. But he industriously worked his features into an expression of neutral interest. "You can give me a name?"

"Drink some beer."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't been drinking any beer! Rum's better, but this good fellow here says some other pirates drank him out before the execution."

"I refuse. Any more of this will have me unconscious on the floor."

"Just _one _pint?"

Mihawk stared, hatred of intoxication and, of course, of Shanks, battling with his obsession. Finally, he said, "Alright. But the next time we meet, Red-hair, I'll do battle with you _properly_, swordsman or no, and that will be my revenge for this ignominy."

"I don't really know what that means," said Shanks contentedly, "but I guess we're rivals now, huh?"

"Oh, yes," Mihawk said, gripping the tankard in front of him with white-knuckled hands. "Very much so."  
"Excellent. I think you'll be a lot better at it than Buggy…" Shanks' mouth quirked contemplatively. "…Even if you do wear women's shirts."

Before Mihawk could rally a defense for the rosebud-patterned silk, Shanks spun languidly on his bar stool and leaned back with an air of great contentment. Hawk-eyes Mihawk, now officially Red-hair's new rival, rolled his eyes and tried to forget this fresh indignation. He went back to sizing up the hated beverage before him.

A minute later, Mihawk was clutching his head in wordless agony, blackness threatening to overwhelm his usually flawless eyesight. Adding insult to injury, Shanks was laughing; Mihawk could feel great the bursts of guffawing pulsing in his skull. It was one of the only sounds audible through the thick blanket of silence that seemed to have dropped over him, save for a faint, high buzzing filling his head.

"_You really are a lightweight, aren't you?" _

Mihawk tried to explain his situation to the riotous pirate boy, but the only thing that came out was a kind of helpless "_gnnnnhh"_.

Not his finest moment.

"_Hey, can you hear me?" _A hand struck him with hearty force in the small of his back, intensifying Mihawk's headache tenfold but, miraculously, bringing his hearing flooding back with a crackling _pop_.

"Yyyes," said Mihawk, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I can hear you. I think I may vomit."

"Now, why would you go and do that? Don't you wanna know who the world's strongest swordsman is?"

"Yes," said Mihawk, and threw up at length on the floor. Shanks observed this with a bemused expression, which he was still wearing when Mihawk straightened, wiping his mouth.

"Okay. It's this guy called 'Monarch' Danial Brasser. Monarch's his pirate-y nickname, like 'Red-haired' for me, and…I don't know yours."

_Danial Brasser._

_Just like that._

The thrill that ran through Mihawk at the information conflicted nastily with how little he had to go on. "That's all you know?"

"Told you everything," said Shanks, looking a little hurt. "Might have a poster for you somewhere, though… Hey, Mister, I'm staying in the little room at the back! Can you bring me my stuff?" And the barman, lenient as ever, turned to comply. Mihawk felt a twinge of envy—no one had ever been so quick to do something for _him_. Damn the red-head and his charisma.

"You'll have a job and a half finding him, though," said Shanks speculatively, staring at the barrels on tap behind the bar. "I hear he doesn't like running into trouble."

"Doesn't like… Then how does he accept challenges?" asked Mihawk a little thickly, trying to flex his fingers and finding them numb.

"Is it a job requirement?"

"I should think so!" Mihawk snapped, pressing his hands to the surface beneath them. His fingers spread, white and bony, over the dark wood. "There will always be men devoted to the art, seeking the greatest… Whether or not we're all up to par, it's his duty to let us test our skills."

Shanks was giving him an odd look. "I guess that's your resolve, then," he said. "When you get there, you'll be that kind of world's greatest swordsman, huh?"

"Yes," said Mihawk. Later, he would wonder about that "when". _When you get there_. But for now, he had to focus on staying awake…just until the barman came back with that…

…poster.

He woke up.

For a moment, disorientation tossed his brain into chaos; where was he? What had he been doing there? And why, in the name of sanity, did his head hurt so much?

An old man, whose name he could not recall through the pounding devil of a headache splitting his skull, had once told him that the consumption of alcohol was basically the slow poisoning of one's body. (_…and then proceeded to down the rest of his second bottle of gin.)_ Mihawk now had an inkling of the truth in this statement—more than an inkling, in fact. He even considered the theory that Shanks had slipped something in that mug of beer before—

_Red-hair._

He snapped upright at the memory, and immediately regretted it. Every pain in his body increased to a point that was almost unbearable. His wounds, which had been forgotten in last night's haze of alcohol, had begun to remind him of their presence with a vengeance. He clapped one hand to his burning chest, grimacing, and then, letting his hand move over his shirt front, felt something shifting under the cloth. He reached under his shirt and withdrew…

The poster.

Mihawk stood up so fast that every stiff muscle and split tendon burned fiercely all at once. He had fallen unconscious on the floor of the bar, and no one had bothered to move him to a bedroom. Of course, in some establishments, regulars who drank themselves to sleep woke up on the street. It could have been worse. Mihawk staggered towards the door, checking himself for all the essentials.

_Knife: check._

_Sword: check._

_All clothes: check._

_Money: None. _But he hadn't had any in the first place, so this was no great issue. Now he just had to find his hat and coffin, and he could get out of East Blue and head somewhere a little bit more…aggressive.

He stared down at the crumpled standard-issue bounty poster as he walked. _**"Monarch" Danial Brasser, 80,000,000**_**. **Mihawk wondered when it had been issued—he wasn't sure whether he could classify "World's Greatest Swordsman" with a bounty, but eighty million seemed…small, somehow.

Which was ridiculous. That was a lot of beri…not that the money was his goal. More importantly…

Mihawk turned his hazy attention back to the picture. It was blurred, clearly taken while the man was in action. His head was turned down and away from the photographer, his eyes hidden in the shadow of a shiny black top hat. Hungry for every tiny detail, Mihawk took in an angular, respectably-sized nose, a thickly-stubbled jaw, and a short brown ponytail whipping from under the top hat. Frustratingly, there was no way to judge the man's physique from this picture alone.

Well, no matter. It wasn't as though physique was the only qualification for swordsmanship—Red-haired Shanks was living proof.

_Red-hair. _The poster crinkled as his fingers twitched reflexively into a fist, and Mihawk, alarmed, loosened his grip before returning to his fury at the events of last night. He couldn't understand his own actions at all, starting from the point where he _gave up _on a fight and continuing until he fell unconscious. Drinking alcohol, which he hated with a passion, and in the company of that _buffoon_, no less! The thought almost dizzied him to the point of collapse again.

All in all, wandering with a hangover, consumed by his thoughts, it took Mihawk rather longer than it should have to come back to his coffin.

Or rather, where his coffin should have been. It was missing, along with his hat. For ten horrible seconds, Mihawk was speechless with outrage at this transgression. And then he was just speechless in his usual way, because, frankly, the things were gone and there was no point yelling about it. It would only have exacerbated his headache, he thought morosely, staring at the place where his mode of conveyance had once been.

_(His hat…he'd lost the stupid hat. Foolish sentimentality-he was as bad as Red-hair.)_

Well, there were only so many options at this point. He could go and buy a new coffin, of course, but this was probably the least plausible choice because he currently had no money. The second option, which would cost less but was far less pleasing in theory, was boarding with an out-bound pirate crew.

Unfortunately, the more he thought about it, the more favorable the latter seemed. After all, a ship would be much safer conveyance than a coffin, and any pirate captain would be foolish to turn down a crew member so skilled at swordplay (Mihawk did not believe in pretension of modesty). The trick would be finding a ship that was not heading for the Grand Line, as so many were sure to do after Roger's speech. He did not want to revisit those seas until he was certain he could find Brasser there.

So…it was time to find a pirate crew.

His best opportunity, he judged, was to simply wait by the docks for the pirates still left on the island to emerge from whatever dens of iniquity where they had been cloistered. This took longer than he expected, but Mihawk found that napping out of the sun in the shelter of an out-of-business restaurant most agreeable.

He had learned enough even while traveling the Blues to know that any given man on the street could not be judged by his appearance. Rather, he preferred to size up passing mariners by their presence. Even the most ostentatious pirate was nothing without a weight to his bravado, the air that he should be taken seriously. Mihawk let several groups pass by before he noticed a pleasing sensation of gravity to the way one band, middling in size, strode toward their ship.

Time to act. He rose, letting the action be a preliminary test of his physical well-being. His body did not flow so much as twitch, but after a couple minutes of painful movement, he knew his muscles would loosen.

That was not his concern now, in any case. If this particular crew was not comprised of forces of nature like Red-hair, Mihawk felt certain he would be able to defeat any given member. (This was a depressing statement in and of itself).

He picked out the captain at once; he was the largest and ugliest, walking with a certain telling spring to his step as he led the ragtag bunch behind him into the shadow of one of the many docked pirate ships. But this man carried no sword; true, his demeanor suggested battle experience, but…

_Fists wrapped in cloth, reinforcement for wrists and knuckles, and a broken nose that healed crooked. _Boxer, maybe for money, since he seemed to have come across other fist fighters in his journeys.

But there had to be a swordsman somewhere (there always was), and if he had even a shred of respect for the path of a swordsman, Mihawk had struck gold. Of course, if there was no swordsman, he could just take a slice out of the next ship over and see how they responded to _that_.

But oh, yes, there he was—the longsword sheathed across his back was so ostentatious as to be advertisement. His hair was black, like Mihawk's, but just as tangled and wild as Mihawk's was groomed and smooth. Still, who was he to judge a man by his hair (_though he didn't appear to own a hat_)? Ignoring this last, Mihawk walked purposefully towards the crew.

Mihawk had no concept of shyness or waiting until the appropriate moment to approach someone. If he wanted something done, he would do it at the first possible opportunity—and in general, "right now" had served him well.

He did not approach the captain; he had no intention of _asking _to join this mismatched band, as his pride would not allow it. He would show them what he could do, and then the _captain _would ask _him_.

"You, with the sword," he said, his voice rasping a bit from disuse and the hangover still twinging in his skull. He clears his throat as they all turn to look at him, a bit annoyed that the gesture might make him come across as nervous. "I challenge you to a duel." He put one hand on the sheath of his own sword, nodding pointedly to the other swordsman so that his meaning was fully understood.

Even so, it took a moment for the man to respond—he stared from under the thatch of black hair obscuring his eyes, frowning as though trying to decide on an answer. All Mihawk could see of his tanned face was a snub nose and a thin, wide mouth. Neither feature gave anything away for five whole seconds, during which Mihawk's impatience, always so close to the surface, waxed swiftly.

Then suddenly the pirate grinned and nodded, showing large, rather yellowed teeth, and reached up over his left shoulder for the hilt of the longsword. "Alright," he said in a deep, strangely musical voice, and Mihawk nodded with satisfaction. _Finally_. "…But I'm not the one you want."

Mihawk raised one eyebrow, not understanding (_logically, the swordsman, the man carrying the sword, is the one I intend to face…unless…_)

Unless he turned around and handed it to someone like that. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, intrigued, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever now held the sword and wondering how short they must be if he had to lean down…like…that…

"That's not funny," he said in the sharpest, most serious voice he could muster.

"No, it's not," said the black-haired man, grinning broadly. "You should see what she does to people who underestimate her."

"I am Dracule Mihawk," said Mihawk, and even now he savored the words. "I killed Drakula Ebons. I defeated countless swordsmen throughout North and West Blue. I traveled the Grand Line and emerged unscathed. _I did not do all this with the intention of dueling a little girl!_"

"Then you'll have to find someone else, Hawk-eyes," said the captain, speaking for the first time. He was watching Mihawk closely with an attitude of wariness that told Mihawk some of his bounty posters at least had made their way to East Blue. And he was about to retort when a high-pitched gasp drew his attention back to his prospective opponent.

The little girl was staring at him with huge, round brown eyes, her face colored with excitement. "_You're _Dracule Mihawk? _Wow! _Tarsky, can I fight him? Please? Can I?"

"I think he just said he doesn't want to," said the man (Tarsky) who apparently acted as the child's beast of burden.

To Mihawk's utter bewilderment-though he let none of it show on his face-the little girl seemed utterly put out by this news and turned on Mihawk the most dispirited gaze he had ever seen. He stared back, momentarily at a loss for words, not least because she was holding a four-and-a-half-foot-long sword as though it was a kitchen knife. Not an ordinary girl, then.

With an effort of will that hardly seemed appropriate for an experienced swordsman, Mihawk drew his sword and let his knees flex, preparing for action. The sword's amiable nature almost seemed to glow beneath his hands, and he spared the still-immaculate blade a surprised glance. He had almost forgotten about the weapon's "personality", especially in the aftermath of his battle with Drakula. The sensation was almost like a nudge or a reminder, but just as Mihawk began to wonder what exactly it was meant to remind him _of_, the girl interrupted.

"My name is Suma," she told him in a tone that could only be described as dutiful, and bowed respectfully. From such commonplace pleasantries, he would have expected the conventional stance of a beginner, but this girl's beginning pose was singularly peculiar.

Mihawk had never seen a swordsman begin with the sword over his shoulder, but this girl let the blade hang until it was almost vertical down her back, the tip resting on the cobblestones. He coughed, willing the heat not to rise to his face at the thought of facing such a ridiculous opponent.

"You're wide open," he told her, unable to stop himself. He couldn't just let her—

"Then why don't you attack me?" she said, and _winked_. Instantly, all pity vanished. The _brat_! Did her personality change during battle, or had he just reached the end of his rope with confident idiots?  
Either way, she was going down.

He made his move, and instantly she was in action too, levering the sword heftily over her shoulder in a surprisingly powerful vertical stroke. It was clumsy, though—he wasn't even within range when she began, and it would take her too long to lift that weight again…

But no, she wasn't _trying _to lift it again. Instead, using the momentum of the first swing, she had used the sword as something like a pole vault, doing a handstand on its hilt for one dizzying moment as the vault reached its zenith. Then she dropped forward, feet first, swinging downwards again with strength disproportionate to her slender stature.

All of this Mihawk comprehended after it actually happened. The nuances of a swordfight were often lost in the frenzy of action, and in this case he had no time to actually think about what she had done or how he was suddenly within the range of that four-foot bar of steel. All he knew was the necessity of avoiding it, and suddenly he thought perhaps he had overestimated his body's capacity for action—

-_blood spurted from his shoulder, where the tip of the blade had taken an inch-deep slice out of his flesh_—

No, no doubts, especially not against some was the fight with Red-hair that had done it, he thought bitterly as he tried to get a handle on the pattern of her techniques. That frivolous, arrogant fifteen-year-old pirate, grinning like defeat was _nothing_!

And pain tore him from his thoughts again, this time from his left thigh. Mihawk swore involuntarily and refocused, his head starting to throb again. He was distracted, aching, and frustrated. It was a bad combination, one that might have been his downfall without the aid of his exceptional reflexes. If he could just concentrate properly for one moment, it would be over before she could blink…

_Use your head! _Suma used the sword as an extension of herself, and not in the way any ordinary swordsman would; its length demanded precision and acrobatic creativity. Mihawk had tested his strength against many incredibly large swords, but their owners for the most part had possessed the build to manage such weight dexterously. This little girl, on the other hand, used the flow of momentum to carry her from one move to the next, and was doing so with great skill.

But not enough skill, perhaps. His alcohol-addled brain had begun to sharpen with pain and the thrill of a proper fight; despite the creativity of her attacks, the girl seemed to favor attacking from his left. He could block properly now, adjusting to her speed and recalling the subtlety of motion he had seen in the best swordsman he had encountered. It was all a matter of matching her…

Every blow directed at him slid away as he sidestepped, countered, and, yes, occasionally twirled on the spot. If any of the crew thought this looked funny, they weren't laughing. And neither, Mihawk noticed with great pleasure, was the girl. She was getting desperate, already red-faced from effort. Her movements were clumsier, her vaulting stunts becoming less frequent. _There!_

She dodged forward, swinging with all her might towards his left side, and Mihawk, anticipating this, blocked the long blade directly and closed the gap between them with a lightning-fast lunge. He was expecting the expression of fear on her face and the familiar feeling of victory. What he did not expect was the sudden irregular shock that ran up his arm and the disturbing sensation that his sword was much lighter than it should have been…and the pain spreading from his left forearm, where Suma's sword was buried in his skin.

It was over. Mihawk pressed the stub of the nameless sword's blade to the girl's throat, noticing with a faint feeling of emptiness that there were only about three inches of steel left attached to the hilt. The remaining length glinted in the corner of his eye, half-blinding in the early-morning sun.

"I could kill you now," he said conversationally, trying to restrain the anger rising in his throat. "I win."  
Suma grinned, instantly innocent and admiring again. "Wow! That sounds really cool! But Mister Hawk-eyes…" she frowned, squinting up at him as though she wasn't in danger of dying. "You don't seem very resolved. Did you lose to someone? I heard you don't lose a lot, but you look a bit…"

Suddenly, Mihawk was tired again. He withdrew, barely wincing as he pulled his arm away from the blade embedded in it, and turned to face the captain. "I'm coming with you."

The man's battered and rather ugly face stretched in surprise. "You just tried to kill our girl, Hawk-eyes."

"And she tried to kill me!" Mihawk retorted, sparing a little energy to be affronted. "But neither of us killed the other, and I need a place to sleep. I've proven myself useful and I will board your ship."

Interestingly enough, it was Suma who came to his aid in this matter, apparently disregarding the fact of their battle, which had ended only moments hence. Instantly distraught at the captain's skeptical reaction, she ran and leapt at the man with rather more energy than Mihawk would have expected from a recently defeated opponent.

"No, Molar, you have to let him join! He's Dracule Mihawk! He's got a bounty of-"

"I saw the poster!" said Captain Molar, attempting to jerk his bandage-swathed right fist from her grasp—for she was, indeed, clinging to it for all she was worth. "You seriously think this guy won't come after us in our sleep?"

"Of course not!" said Suma knowledgeably, frowning as she was finally loosened from the man's arm. "Didn't you see how he told Tarsky he wanted to fight before we started? He's got swordsman's honor!"

Molar addressed Suma, but his small black eyes were focused directly on Mihawk as he spoke. "Yeah, well, this is a new age, Su. I wouldn't believe him for a moment, alright? We're pirates, and honor ain't part of the job description."

"So don't trust me," said Mihawk coolly, though he couldn't help feeling faint annoyance at the captain's suspicions. The little girl, as much as he hated to admit it, was right—he had no intention of attacking anyone from behind, unless they deserved it or showed themselves to be cowards by running from him. "I still need a place to sleep, and I can do so wherever you deem most appropriate."

"…Right," said Molar, and suddenly his nature seemed to change completely. He nodded amiably to Mihawk, even baring a gap-toothed set of teeth in an attempted smile. "Well, if that's the case, no problem! Welcome aboard."

He extended a hand, which Mihawk pretended to ignore, staring instead past the man before him at the ships moored at Loguetown's docks.

"Which one is yours?" he asked disinterestedly, glancing randomly at one of the crew members—a slender young man with almost feminine features.

The other gestured vaguely over his shoulder, speaking with a voice as androgynous as his physical appearance. "Behind this one here. Schooner, easily manned by six or even five if we're short." He gave Mihawk a hard look that contrasted strangely with his seemingly womanish demeanor. "You'll be extra weight. You'd better be worth this, swordsman."

"Do you have enemies?" asked Mihawk, tilting his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the ship.

Molar laughed, clapping him heartily on the back. Mihawk hated being clapped on the back, but found himself to be of sound enough constitution to resist buckling under the fist-fighter's blows. Training his muscles had paid off.

"Enemies? 'Course we do! Gambling debts, deals we've thrown, people we've stolen from…it's a mixed bag, like every—"

"Then I'll be worth it," said Mihawk, and then, as a second thought, added, "but don't touch me."

* * *

Later, settled on the most secluded corner of the deck he could find, staring up at the sky, Mihawk thought about what Molar had said earlier.

_Honor ain't part of the job description. _

He wondered with faint apprehension whether other pirates setting out from Gold Roger's execution felt the same. Over the years he had encountered more swordsmen than he could name, but all of them had committed themselves wholly to the battle and the swordsman's unspoken code of integrity. For a moment, he could not help envisioning a world where every man on the seas committed himself instead to a life of deceit and mutiny as it favored him.

He hadn't realized such things were important until now.

Nor had he realized what comfort he had taken in the presence of the nameless sword. There was no familiar weight at his hip now, and the sense of insecurity was maddening. Mihawk despised insecurity almost as much as he despised the creeping notion that he was acting like a child who had lost its favorite toy.

He didn't know why he had left the pieces of the sword as well as its scabbard on the white-paved Loguetown road instead of taking it to ask after repairs. He didn't even know exactly how the little girl had managed to slice straight through steel, though he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with what Suma had said about his "loss of resolve".

He was determined to regain that resolve. Recently, he had felt as though his goal had wandered, become less focused. If he was to experience further humiliations in this new age, he would suffer them and return to his purpose stronger than ever. If he had to leave everything of his old self behind to do so, so be it. It wouldn't be the first time.

The past faded into the distance, along with the coffin that had borne him for so long, the red-feathered fedora, and the sword whose name he had never known.

* * *

_A young apprentice at a recently-opened sword shop in Loguetown was walking to work the day after the Pirate King's execution when he came across a fine sword, regrettably split in two, and its mate scabbard. _

_Taken back to his master and appraised, the sword was found to be the legendary _Yubashiri_, and was given with reverence to the most talented smith in the city. Repaired and re-appraised as having lost no great amount of quality or keenness, it was still the finest sword on their shelves. And so it was stowed away in the back rooms, with much speculation over what crass, uneducated swordsman could have discarded it._

_And there _Yubashiri_, the Snow-Runner, stayed, until many years later when the young apprentice had inherited the shop from his father. And then another crass, uneducated swordsman came along and got it for free. _

_And that just goes to show how weird the world is._

* * *

**Mihawk is a very strange character to write in comparison to, say, the Strawhats, because he is a solitary fellow. I have no crew to bounce his personality off of, and even those who do interact with him don't stick around for long. That's why, I think, I was so pleased to get to write Shanks here! He'll be a constant in our valiant main character's life-a rival, a secondary goal to the greatest swordsman. He's a great foil for Mihawk, and it was just hilarious writing them together!  
**

**Yes, I took liberties with Yubashiri! So sue me. I thought it would be a very One Piece-y coincidence. Also, Molar and his crew won't be around for long-like most of the OCs I've created for Subtlety, they're just here to make a point.**

**Speaking of OCs, quiz time! Who can tell me what Jamba Curry looks like? I never did a huge description paragraph for him, but I dropped little bits of it throughout the story and I want to see whether everyone got a good mental picture from that or whether I just plain failed. Humor me, please!  
**

**Now, a slightly sad reflection mostly on my own inadequacy: I think I've lost one or two reviewers during the enormous gap during which I didn't update. I'm not angry about any lack of reviews (I'm already super-spoiled on that front), and if they dropped it because they stopped liking it, who am I to argue? But if there are people out there who think Subtlety is dead and wish it weren't...well, they'll have a few new chapters waiting for them if they ever check back, I guess. **

**Speaking of reviewers, all of whom I love and appreciate...  
**

**REVIEW REPLIES (Let the SBS corner begin!)**

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**Ysaye: I was (and am) glad to finally update! Thank you for reading and here's some Shanks for you! ;D**

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**Majin Hentai X: Yes, we've finally gotten into proper One Piece! :D I need to write that list of things that needs to happen on a post-it note and stick it on my computer..._become greatest swordsmen, join Shichibukai, fight Zoro_... I'm hoping to really put some meaning into Mihawk's perspective of his fight with Zoro-like everything has been leading up to this. It's gonna be good.**

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**Lecat: D'you know, I really didn't know it was a _Princess Bride _quote until everyone started telling me so. XD But this is alright-it's a brilliant movie. I too will miss Curry! It's the passing of an age, and I'm glad you enjoyed reading the beginning of the Great Pirate Era. I hope to do just as well during this age! **

**SniperKingSogeking0341: Backstory for another hugely major One Piece character who may at any point reveal the truth and completely nullify my fanfiction?**

**...**

**...Maybe. XD I want to finish Subtlety before I go anywhere near Shanks, though. For now, all you get is some brief goodness from everyone's favorite redhead. Even if someone has never heard of Shanks, he is their favorite redhead!**

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**SilverRainFalls: Indeed, I have reached the stable ground of canon! ...But I've realized I still have a long way to go before the Strawhats are even born. I need a timeline, seriously. It's weird writing this version of Mihawk, because he's still young, but working towards maturity, which means I have to mix grown-up Mihawk and Boy more delicately than ever. **

**I was awfully sad to see Curry go-he's become very dear to me as a character and I had so many other story ideas for him. But there was really no avoiding it, not after that battle. Still, eleven chapters is a lot!**

**And you get a prize for predicting Shanks' arrival! :D**

* * *

**All Nightmare Long: And I love making up explanations for canon fact! That's mainly where these stories come from, you see. Lord, yes, Roger's execution is brilliant. Now, _there's _a character who could use an excellent backstory. I think I found a good one recently, but I swear I can't remember the name of it...get back to you on that. I'm told that the quote at the beginning of the chapter is a _Princess Bride_ quote, though I didn't know it myself. Thank you too for writing and sharing! **

**I wouldn't want you to hold your breath for three months either, but at least it wasn't half a year this time, eh? XD I'm improving!**

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**Tiramisu30: I am deeply touched that my story was the first you reviewed under your new screenname! I'm happy to see it back on track as well, and also to know that you actually enjoyed slogging through its inordinately long chapters (I never have the patience for long stories myself, so I guess that makes me a hypocrite). XD Thanks so much!**

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**strawberryshoez: It's nice just to know you've been reading it! Though reviews are always received with a warm and fuzzy feeling, of course. Past-fics are indeed few and far-between, good OCs even moreso. I personally am trying to live up to Y St Ace's (probably never-to-be-updated-again) Bellemere past-fic, which is really brilliant. **

**Aaahh, the three types of _haki_... I've been hoping to avoid addressing this, for some reason-it's like a school assignment I've been putting off. The first proper explanation I read of what _haki _actually is was just a basic description of how a normal Japanese person would understand it, and it's how I've been using it since then. The One Piece universe just takes the concept of real-life _haki _and exaggerates it, which is what One Piece does. I suppose in this case if I had to pick a certain kind of one of the three, I would have to break down and say the energy and resolve Mihawk used in the last chapter was _Haoshoku Haki_. On the other hand, Shanks has been seen to knock people out simply with his presence (not even concentrating), and I'm not sure whether that means he has _Haoshoku Haki_. I do believe there is a basic sort of _haki _that has nothing to do with any of the three kind Raleigh mentioned. This said, Mihawk must be able to use _haki_ in some capacity, as his very intimidating nature and reputation do that for him. However, I'm starting to re-think the last chapter, because technically what both Mihawk and Drakula exhibited was more like _sakki_, or killing intent. That's mostly what we see from Zoro. On the other hand, Mihawk might still have thought of it as _haki _at that point, not knowing the difference, so perhaps all I have to do is have someone correct him on that count later. **

**...Okay. Sorry about that block paragraph of doom.  
**

**Anyway, now that it's been mentioned, I'll go and do my research about the different types of _haki _and try to find out whether any of them specifically suit Mihawk or whether he's just a mighty swordsman. **

**If anyone else has thoughts on this, please include them in your next review or send me a note! And I'll see if I can find the article I read on _haki_.  
**

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**BlizzardXIII: Good, 'cuz as much as I keep expecting flames, I suck at responding to them rationally! XD **

**And I am glad you like Curry! Boredom may indeed be a large factor in how much time he spends rambling. I admit to using the thesaurus more than once to find the longest word possible, but reading a bunch of old books has upped my vocab enough to write his dialogue without a lot of trouble. It is true that Curry would be an oddity in One Piece-I don't know how Oda would bring across the dialogue of a character like that. I don't think Japanese works in quite the same way, after all. **

**Thanks! :D**

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**cinnamon-shake: Geez, you re-read all of it? And you're still alive to review? D: It's probably a bad sign that I shudder at the thought of re-reading my own story... XD **

**Indeed...I knew from the beginning that Curry would have to leave, but as I've said before, it felt like a loss to me as well. Does this count as "soon"?**

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**Phalanx: You win a prize for resourceful reviewing! Sorry about the chapter trouble...it was a necessary amputation. That said, I will now reply in much the same nature as you reviewed, because I like how concise a numbered list makes a message.**

**1) Hurray, my fight scenes have been approved by someone with experience! I feel like a dream has been fulfilled, heh...**

**2) Thank you-I was afraid the way he got his name would seem sort of cheesy and contrived. **

**3) The hat indeed! Though not the one we see in canon. I went back and was surprised to find that it has a white feather rather than a red one.**

**4/5) Hopefully Shanks, though not Curry's equal in bombastic language, as you say, will be the entertaining half of the Mihawk dynamic from now on. Also, I was looking to make Curry's proof of Mihawk's improvement as brutal as possible, just so it was undeniable. I guess I'm cruel that way...?**

**6) Season Two begins! We need a new opening song, new animation, and new voice actors! (Actually, before all that, I need to actually get an anime.) grin **

**Thank you for your fabulous review! And yes, that is the fic I meant when I mentioned it last chapter. Nice job. ;)**

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**nautikitti: Thank you, you're too kind! I look forward as well to future chapters-it's been a great ride so far (if interspersed with way-too-long hiatuses).  
**

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**Dawn of Destruction: YOU. ARE. AWESOME. TOO. Not least for reading it all at once. Thank you for stopping to review! If I ever try out coffin travel, I'll let you know whether it is as unhealthy as it seems, awright?  
**

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**Mocobo: I am humbled and flattered by your review-I don't really know any other way than to be hard on myself, but I'll do my best to treat myself more kindly from now on, if it bothers you so. Thank you! Ack, you're totally right...I didn't even think about Curry's red hair as a young man recalling Shanks! Maybe he's...Shanks' grandfather or something. No, never mind, that would link him to canon too much. Just try not to think about it! XD And I love doing cameos-good job catching Bellemere, by the way. I wish I'd thought to include a few more here, but I'll have plenty of time for that later. **

**You have my full permission to advertise! The reason I finished this chapter is probably thanks to the unwitting encouragement of some commenters on Arlong Park forums who were suggesting this story to their buddies. I was so buoyed by reading their posts and I set directly to work on Mihawk's fight with Suma. **

**And he will stay adorkable for as long as I can drag it out! I have no intention of making him Serious!Mihawk until I really have to. And of course he'll always have that dark sense of humor.  
**

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**Gazer: It does indeed live! I have to apologize once again to you (and to SLER down there) for the whole chapter-y fiasco. It won't happen again. As for Part IV, there were a few people confused by it, and the writing was sort of terrible. I am still rather amused by it, but perhaps that was not the place for it. Thank you so much for letting me know I really got you involved in the story-that's high praise and not something I often hear. With the last chaper, I feel I've graduated high school early or something-it all happened at once! Curry leaving, Boy turning into Mihawk, the Great Pirate Age beginning... sigh**

**Still, THREE MONTHS! I'm on a roll!  
**

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**SLER: I know I'm doing well when you're happy to see "Subtlety" in your inbox! I'm so lucky to have viewer who beam at my chapter notifications. I don't even know where I got the idea for Mihawk's anemia-I was just like, "there has to be a reason why he's pale and cranky and tired all the time", and this just kind of clicked. I suspect in canon he's just naturally that well. Oh, well, _c'est la vie_.**

** Cleared up the whole "world's greatest swordsman" mess...sorry for that misunderstanding, as I said. But now it's gone. **

**I made someone cry? Someone cried because some guy I made up left the scene? I...wow. That's unusual. But I do feel I've achieved something, somehow (not that I take any delight in the thought of people crying).  
**

**Mihawk's inborn morbidity pays off in the use of a coffin as conveyance! Hey, maybe you can test it out for me! (I discussed this above somewhere...)  
**

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**And in closing: What's up with all these people saying the re-read the whole thing, or read it all in one go? You're all crazy! But it also makes me really happy. I hope it didn't eat up too much of your time, guys. There are far more important things to be doing.**

**...**

**EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES ME REALLY HAPPY.  
**


	13. Part XIII: Honor

**So. Subtlety is, as of now, 91,642 words long. And I'm sorry again for taking so long with this. This time, it was more than just writer's block, though. I was completely lost and I didn't have a story map at all. I had places I wanted to get, but I didn't know how to get there.  
**

**I credit ImmortalMelody with getting me back on track. Thanks so much for talking it through with me and helping me out! I owe you big, and now that I can get to the places I want to be, it is _on_.  
**

**I ran across someone suggesting this fic on LiveJournal as a "Mihawk story without pairings", although they did comment that I'd only said there was no mysterious _woman _in Mihawk's past. To be honest, I've never seen someone invent an OC for a canon character to be gay with, but I'm just going to mention now (in case thirteen chapters of purely platonic relationships haven't done it yet) that there are no pairings. None at all.  
**

**Except the scandalous threesome of CurryxWordsxAlcohol. SOMEONE WRITE IT.  
**

**(No, no one write it! Man, I need to get more sleep...)  
**

**But _anyway_: in this chapter, Mihawk kills some people and frightens a couple foppish idiots. And then we segue into a new adventure! IT'S EXCITING!  
**

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Part VIII: Honor

_"Ability without honor is useless. " -Marcus Tullius Cicero _

_There was blood on his face and blood on his hands. _

_It was not his._

_Mihawk could feel his lungs burning, his head throbbing with a fury so acute even the finality of the destruction could not blunt it._

"_Men without honor," he said coldly, "do not deserve to live."_

_He could feel the planks of the shattered schooner splintering beneath his feet—time to leave. It would mean more drifting and possibly starvation, but the seas had always treated him well before…or at least, he had survived their trials up until now. _

_There was a loose plank bobbing nearby; he dropped into the salt water, barely feeling its chill, and hooked his arms over the polished wood. _

"_It was just your bad luck," he added to what remained of Molar's crew—dead, dying, unconscious or groaning. "By accepting my offer you brought this fate on yourself."_

_Eventually, the current came between him and the wreckage, and Mihawk surrendered himself once more to the whims of fate on the open ocean._

_But a week before that…_

* * *

He only bothered to learn the names of four people on the crew of the Fickle; Molar, his "captain" (not that Mihawk would ever refer to him as such), Suma (because she was decent for her age and was therefore worth acknowledgement), Tarsky (because the girl was always whining at him), and Dahlia, the effeminate caretaker of the ship (because he was constantly yelling at Mihawk to get up and do something useful).

All in all, he would have been happier to drift on his own, dozing in his coffin, looking forward to the next fight. But in the great, open potential of the Great Pirate Era (as it was apparently called), Mihawk decided he might as well give pirates their chance.

So far, they hadn't impressed him much.

(Except the Red-hair boy, but that brat was a special case. He'd be dealt with later.)

They weren't without bounties on their heads, which was at least something, but none of them held a candle to the number on Mihawk's poster. He should have been aloof and indifferent about this, a paragon of uncaring excellence. However, there was a certain arrogance that came along with having a vocabulary larger than half the population of East Blue and the swordsmanship to back up his loquacious boasts.

He bought a new sword, even though by now he could just have taken one from whomever he pleased. It was a habit, nothing else. He practically had to force shopkeepers to take money; soon, he knew, it would just become too much trouble.

And they sailed on…

* * *

_He had disliked Suma. Children in general grated on his nerves, and she had been loud and high-pitched and…odd. Not that oddness was a factor in his dislike; Mihawk had encountered enough strange people over his years of travel to discard prejudice over a little girl's obsession with swordsmanship. But she had been a disturbance, and his sleep was precious to him._

_She had talked too much._

* * *

"Who taught you to use a sword?"

Mihawk didn't answer. There was a chance she would just…go away if he pretended he was asleep long enough.

"How did you get so famous?"

_Just sleep…just let it go._

"Did you really beat Drakula Ebons? Did you kill him? What does it feel like to kill someone? I haven't gotten to yet."

_What an unfortunately bloodthirsty child!_

_(It was like killing a wolf.)_

But he didn't say that; instead, he rolled over and willed her to leave.

"What are you going to do after you leave us?"

…Perceptive of her. Mihawk decided that this one warranted an answer, in the hopes that this question was as final as it sounded.

"I'm going to go find the great black blade," he said slowly.

"The what?"

"…Never mind." He opened his eyes and stood slowly, pleased with how well his body responded; he was healing well. "I'm going for a walk."

"I thought you wanted to take a nap, though…"  
Before he could compose a retort that suitably summed up his frustration at the stupid little child, Dahlia was yelling at him again about rigging and an island off the starboard bow and _get moving, damn your eyes!_

Time to do the job.

* * *

_Not that he'd ever actually participated in the crew's dirty work, such as it was. Mihawk had never had any inclination to hand out charity and they hadn't needed a master swordsman to perform acts of petty theft. His role had been to stand in the background and look menacing, and since this mainly bored him, he had generally ended up napping._

_His arms were starting to cramp. He wondered whether he'd been floating for one hour or two._

* * *

He didn't ask stupid questions like _did you have to kill that woman_. He didn't stop them from doing it. He didn't feel guilty.

(He _didn't_.)

…It was unnecessary. The random killings, the lies—saying, "I shot that man through the head because he started moving for his sword!" when in fact it was purely a result of boredom—and Molar's disgusting inclination to excess violence.

"Couldn't you just kill _efficiently_?" he asked distastefully, one day after the Bash Pirates' most recent conquest. "Taking your time to wantonly spill this much blood both bores and disgusts me."  
Molar spared him a glance as usual and then went back to emptying the man's pockets. "Then _leave_."

But he didn't. Mihawk would wonder later why he didn't just find a new crew and leave the Fickle's obnoxious residents behind.

Maybe he was waiting for something.

Maybe I was waiting for it_, he thought, staring back in the direction of the shattered boat; the sun was rising and his eyes, already stinging from the salt water, burned when they met its orange light. He didn't want to think about it because anger was too much trouble and all he really wanted to do was sleep._

He was waiting for them to prove him wrong. It was the only explanation he could come up with, late at night, glaring blankly up at the blackness of the sky while the day's exploits replayed in his head.

He was waiting for proof. A while ago, under the tutelage of a stupid old bastard, he had begun to think the world was populated by honorable men. And now he needed proof that it _wasn't _also home to the kind of people who would attack an unarmed victim four-to-one with a knife.

But as it turned out, that gang of boys would always be there in one form or another. And Mihawk was beginning to understand that what really mattered was the way in which you dealt with those boys.

So maybe he was waiting for something _else_. For something to push him over the edge.

It didn't take very long.

Suma was too talkative for her own good, he had decided. And all she had interest in was swordsmanship, which, granted, was Mihawk's only area of expertise outside…hats, wine, and iambic pentameter (courtesy of one excessively literate geezer). But he had no interest in getting involved in a conversation about it with a little girl.

But she _would be talking_. And he certainly couldn't stop her from babbling about Drakula Ebons and this and that and every other famous swordsman on the seas, even though she didn't recognize "Monarch" Danial Brasser at all when he held out the poster to her in hopes of making her shut up.

Occasionally, though, she would stray from her favorite topic and onto the rest of the crew, for whom she seemed determined to speak as well. _Tarsky thinks _and _Cap'n Molar said yesterday _and who knew what else… For the most part, he just stopped paying attention when she reached this point. He'd heard everything from Dahlia he needed to and he had no interest in listening to it all over again, thank you very much. But sometimes she mentioned little things that he couldn't help thinking about later, like…

"Tarsky says Cap'n Molar shouldn't be captain anymore. Wonder if it'll start a fight."

For a child so obsessed with bloodshed and edged weapons, Suma had a talent for dropping portentous comments like this without apparently understanding the implications. Mihawk stared at her, waiting for further information, but she had apparently exhausted her well of information and instead just stared fixedly back at him.

Mihawk grunted and rolled over, disturbed.

"You know, if we fought again, I think you could kill me in a couple seconds," she said happily. Mihawk raised an eyebrow at this and then put his brain in _ignore everything _mode and promptly fell asleep.

But not before that one phrase echoed one more time in his head…

_Tarsky says Cap'n Molar shouldn't be captain anymore._

How curious.

* * *

_It had seemed like a slow progression at first, something he could watch from a distance, biding his time before stepping in. But the human mind wasn't that predictable, and when everything came to a boil, the suddenness had been startling._

* * *

Molar slept with a gun.

This was Mihawk's last clue-in to the man's personality; if he had owned a gun from the start, it would have been much more efficient to just kill with a bullet to the victim's head. Instead, he had always apparently seen the need to go through the torturous process of beating them to death.

So Mihawk didn't really care when the captain died, which is to say that he didn't care about the man himself. The manner of his death, however, left much to be desired.

The mutiny was planned without him. This was wise of the mutineers, in some ways; he wouldn't have tolerated such underhanded plotting even in its conceptual stages. But to actually do the deed while he was on board…that was truly unwise.

Molar slept with a gun and that was why, in the early, pearl-gray hours of the morning, Mihawk awoke abruptly to a series of sharp _crack_s and was crouching in a defensive stance with his new blade angled to guard his heart and head.

When it became clear that the firearm in question was nowhere near him, he straightened slowly, clearing his eyes with a couple of deliberate blinks and exercising their remarkable acuity in the shifting darkness of the hour. There was nothing to be seen, which could only mean that the entirety of the crew had moved below deck and was crammed into Molar's cabin. Five people in the same room, and one with a gun… There was nothing to be seen, but plenty to be heard. The clamor was audible even through the deck.

It was the work of moments to make his way around to the hatch, and then, cautiously, down the almost-vertical wooden stairs. There was a small space at the bottom, barely wide enough for him, and beyond that, a curtain serving as the door to the captain's room.

"—_said SHUT UP!"  
"You realize I have a hostage and I—"_

"—_wouldn't _dare_—"_

"_Drop the gun, drop it right now or I swear—"_

"—_thought we agreed to _share _authority as captain until—"_

"—_care about them or what happens, but let her GO!"_

"—_kill all of you if you try—"_

"—_rrraahhh!"_

"_Suma, get—"_

There was the sound of a pistol being cocked, and it was at this moment that Mihawk, almost dreamlike, pushed aside the curtain and looked inside.

He should have waited, perhaps, for that gun to fire again. Then perhaps the atmosphere would have been less volatile and _perhaps _he wouldn't have been greeted by a hot, splashing sensation across his face. His vision blurred through a scarlet haze and his mouth was suddenly saturated with the coppery flavor of blood. He knew it too well by now to be mistaken, and it disgusted him almost as much as the nature of the men before him.

Everyone was still yelling all at once.

"Stay out of this, swordsman! It doesn't matter to you—"

"_Bastard_, you just—"

"—know I'm serious! Now you—"

"_Shut up_."

Absolute silence fell. Mihawk took a step forward, grinding the palm of one hand into his left eye in attempt to regain a decent range of vision. He knew the hush wouldn't last; he had thirty seconds at best to evaluate the situation—maybe five more if he talked.

Molar: clutching a flintlock pistol, his ugly face bruised but alive with fury.

Dahlia: crouching in a corner behind a compact dresser, one hand creeping towards a knife—presumably a weapon he had lost previously.

Tarsky: on the floor, hands pressed to the patch of crimson swiftly spreading from a wound on his stomach.

Suma: dead, Tarsky curled protectively around her, her hair hiding the bullethole that had to be the source of the blood puddling near her still form.

Two other crewmen, whose names Mihawk had never bothered to learn, stood uncertainly to one side; one had his hand on the handle of another gun, while the other, soaked with nervous sweat, tried to hide behind his comrade.

Time was up. Molar raised his pistol, baring his teeth at Mihawk and Mihawk…

…_breathed._

_Iai._

It hadn't worked against Red-hair, but these were hardly true warriors. The sword bit cleanly through wood, iron, flesh, and bone, leaving Molar without the use of his firearm or, indeed, his arm. And now there was more blood, soaking into the hilt of his sword, spattering his hands.

Mihawk leveled his yellow eyes at the man with an expression that walked the fine and unusual line between boredom and cold fury. "Have you ever seen a swordsman perform a flying strike?"

"I—aaagh-!"

"Bear witness," Mihawk told him, and brought his blade down with a forceful exhale—_don't just swing _at_ something, swing through it…cut _everything_. _

There was a moment's panicked silence, and then the schooner began to crack open around them. Salt water gushed into the freshly opened space, but it was the work of a moment to leap up, catch the splintered edge of the deck with one hand, and hoist himself above the rising flood. And he stared down at the scum of the sea with on compassion whatsoever, with the understanding that these were the kind of men whom he could kill in a fit of ennui and leave the world no wiser.

There was blood on his face and blood on his hands.

It was not his.

Mihawk could feel his lungs burning, his head throbbing with a fury so acute even the finality of the destruction could not blunt it.

"Men without honor," he said coldly, "do not deserve to live."

* * *

He spent the next two days drinking seawater and sleeping in anemic, fitful bursts. When he wasn't sleeping, he hallucinated, and when he wasn't waking, his dreams were so disturbing as to make him jolt awake and vomit.

Most men would have thought, "at least there are no sea monsters," but by now Mihawk's brain had begun to work in rather unconventional ways. He had recently cut a ship in half (albeit a small one), and so the neck of a sea king seemed no great trial.

Also, he needed the nourishment.

But this was East Blue, and so no such providence was forthcoming. Near noon on the first day, a fishing boat passed him by, but its occupants gave his eyes one look before promptly locking the oars in their rollicks and moving away at high speed. Mihawk watched them leave with faint contempt, and then went back to waiting for seafarers with no particular bias against wanted enemies of the government.

As it happened, the Marines who hauled him aboard their ship were, in fact, _deeply _prejudiced against wanted criminals. However, they did provide him with salted pork and a bowl of clean water, and so Mihawk played the tame, weakened captive for the time being. The silence of the brig was almost enjoyable, and afforded him a little time to think over his situation and wonder where they'd hidden his sword and knife.

It didn't last long, of course.

"Yeah, everyone's talking about how he's some big-shot pirate… Don't believe one word of it, myself."

_I _am _ten feet from you, you know. _

But now wasn't the time to open his mouth—better to listen and wait for the rabbits.

"But there's no mistaking the eyes! It's definitely him, isn't it?"

"So they overestimated him at HQ, so what? Happens all the time."

"Does it?"

"Yeah, of course! He's mad as a headless chicken…did you hear, he was talking to himself when they pulled him out of the water?"

Mihawk didn't know what to think about this one. On the one hand, he would have liked to believe that his usual composure carried through even to times of starvation and dehydration. On the other hand, he had been totally delirious.

"What was he talking about?"

"Aw, some nonsense about the 'World's Greatest Swordsman'."

"There's a…?"

"Of course not!"

…_What?_

"But there has to be one out there somewhere, right?"

"Well, in _theory_, yes," said the enlightened Marine, clearly enjoying his role as the educator. "In _theory_, but if you asked around, you'd just get a bunch of different answers, wouldn't you?"

…That sounded familiar. Where had he—

Oh, yes. That had been his plan at the beginning—asking around, finding the general consensus, and seeking out the man with, as it were, the most _votes _for World's Greatest Swordsman. It hadn't worked well, and eventually he had simply given up on asking and focused instead on finding the strongest _available _rivals.

Until Red-hair. Until Red-hair and the poster, and it hadn't even _occurred _to Mihawk to ask why Danial Brasser was such an unknown, why his bounty was only eighty million beri. The most logical conclusion, of course, was that Red-hair had tricked him, played a prank. It didn't seem at all out of keeping with his personality, from what Mihawk knew. And even if it hadn't been intentional, the thrice-damned boy had seemed a genuine alcoholic…

They were still talking outside.

Mihawk was trying to rest and think, and a couple of glorified policemen felt the need to chatter wantonly about him while he was in earshot.

It was downright _intolerable_.

Remarkably, Mihawk resisted the urge to kill them, severely injure them, or terrify them with killing intent. Either he had developed much better self-control over the years (unlikely, given his recent murderous behavior), or he was simply tired.

Shortly after considering this, he dropped off into sleep.

* * *

_Three days later._

Night had fallen.

Mihawk opened his eyes in the blackness. He didn't remember falling asleep—a phenomenon that had become increasingly common these past days. He disliked it; being unable to control or predict his own body was unacceptable.

he sat up slowly, aware that something was different but still unsure as to what it might be. He looked, listened, smelled, touched—

There was a faint odor of smoke in the air, mingling with oil. Someone had pinched out an oil lamp, most likely the sleeping Marine outside (in hopes of resting better) or his friends (in hopes of scaring him when he awoke).

Sounds: heartbeats, yes—block that out. The waves—yes, standard white noise on a seafaring vessel… And faint, echoing taps at the hull of the ship, as though it were…bumping up against something—_ah_, that was it.

They had docked.

Perhaps, Mihawk thought, settling back in a corner of the brig, it was time to start planning his escape.

_Breathe in…_

_Breath out._

Listening to the little rabbit heartbeats in the dark, Mihawk waited for the right one to come near. He'd been listening to the changing guards for the past three days now, tracking their movements until each one of them was engraved in his mind.

For the most part, it seemed they thought he'd finally lost it, lying there unresponsive and slack in a corner. _Is that really Dracule Mihawk? The one who-?_

_Doesn't look so dangerous now, does he?_

Three of them were carrying swords; only two of them disciplined their breath and movements when they sensed his killing intent, but the third was young and panicky.

_Found you._

Mihawk didn't know why they let this fragile young man come anywhere near a "criminal" of his standing, but he was fully prepared to exploit that fear.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped elegantly through the trapezoidal gash in the ship's side, a new sword hanging at his side. He had no interest in carrying any further the one he had used as a passenger of the Fickle, and this blade was a particularly fine Western-style work. He hadn't been expecting such neat slices when he set into the side of the ship, but the sword had done its job well.

He'd never expected to cut open two ships in three days.

Behind him, groans echoed in the wooden cavity of the passageway. No deaths so far, purely because Mihawk didn't feel like it, but if any one of them tried to engage him in a serious fight, he would not hold back. He never had, after all.

He wondered whether there was a coffin-maker in town.

(As it turned out, there was.)

* * *

Several weeks later, Mihawk found himself in Sispress on Crest Island. This city was large, settled near the ocean, under a painfully cloudless sky. Mihawk had never been gladder of his hat's broad brim, or more vexed by the paleness of his skin. He had learned by now that he would never tan or freckle, only burn horribly.

He felt it detracted somewhat from his image as expert swordsman when half his face was a fetching shade of lobster-red.

In any case, the residents of Sispress were conveniently ignorant about the world outside their wealthy little community, and so there was no image to maintain. Mihawk could enter a clothing store, browse, and pay for the garments, all without being attacked or cowered from. It was a novel experience.

This week's supply of beri, interestingly enough, came not from any picaresque conquest, but from a senile old woman. She had mistaken Mihawk for her grandson (whether or not the boy was still alive was as of yet a mystery) and pressed a weighty purse on him. Apparently, he was to use it to seek his fortune on the high seas, "as he had always wished".

Mihawk had not felt like arguing.

Thus, he was able to buy a new black shirt, embroidered with spiky crimson flowers, and a pair of high-quality leather boots that might actually have been waterproof. Mihawk preferred clothing that would not catch on his surroundings, but he had recently learned the value of a pair of pants loose enough for fluid movement. And so, after deep consideration, he chose soft, dark grey trousers. And as for a belt…

"Have you any belts equipped to hold a sword?"

The cashier grinned, baring disturbingly large teeth, and twirled a lock of his shockingly purple hair around one finger. "Well of _coouuurse_ not, sir? We are, ahem, _hardly_ an armory, I'm _suuuuuure_ you understand?"

Mihawk stared.

The cashier seemed unfazed. "However, we do stock certain other miscellaneous, that is to say, ahem, we _dooooo _have other varieties of belts, as it were, if you will?"

"All your sentences," said Mihawk, "end in question marks. You disturb me."

"Should I explain further, sir? I'm sure I was _quiiiiiiiite _clear, was I not? Quite definite, though not, per se, with great brevity, so to—"

Mihawk narrowed his eyes to golden slits and watched as the man faltered into nervous silence. He held eye contact until he could smell the cashier sweating, and then dropped his chosen outfit carelessly on the counter along with the necessary payment.

The cashier (whose nametag bore the unpleasant moniker "Despit Turban") laughed nervously and began to check the tags with the air of a man eager to finish his task. Mihawk watched impassively, wondering whether he should surrender to the impulse to tap his foot impatiently. It was quite possible the action would cause Mr. Despit to faint inconveniently.

"You're…a swordsman, then, sir?"

"Of course," Mihawk snapped, and then held himself in check as the tone of Turban's voice sank in. There was some significance to the question, surely. "...Why?" he asked reluctantly, watching for any sign to confirm this inkling.

"Weeeelll…" Turban began, and then stopped abruptly when he saw Mihawk's face. He cleared his throat and tried again, successfully eliminating most of his propitiating drawl. "Well, uh, you see, one of our resident nobles is quite the enthusiast…I mean, he collects swords?"

"Swords are not for _collection_," said Mihawk dismissively, sweeping his purchases up under one arm. "They are for _use_, you sad little man. I have no interest in—"

"No, sir, you don't understand?" (He seemed so very determined to impress.) "He's in possession of the _Kokuto Yoru_?"

"Good for him," Mihawk muttered, barely restraining a sardonic eye roll as he started toward the door.

But the damn fool just didn't know when to give up. "Sir, the Kokuto Yoru? Don't tell me you haven't heard of it? The Demon Sword? The great black blade?"

_The—_

"I want this man's name and address," said Mihawk, turning slowly on one heel. And then, when Despit Turban seemed about to object, he added, "_Or I will end you._"

Turban swallowed hard. "…Let me find a piece of paper, sir?"

* * *

It was dark by the time he arrived at the gravel path leading up to the nobleman's house, and Mihawk was already irritable enough given that he had walked for five hours to get there. He was almost—_almost_—ready to just do as he pleased and break through the door.

In general, Mihawk avoided knocking on doors or announcing himself in any way. It suggested that he had some interest in paying his respects as a visitor, and this was very rarely the case. Even so, he still preferred coming in through the front door.

Today, he knocked.

It grated on his nerves, but if there was anyone he found it necessary to offer respect to, it was a talented swordsman. And any man who could take (what was it called?) the Kokuto Yoru had to be formidable indeed.

_They say who takes the great black blade_

_From where its master's corpse was laid_

_Shall find the world in arms arrayed_

_And count ten thousand swords…_

He was ready.

As it turned out, there was nothing to be ready for, at least not on his way up to the mansion. Mihawk had been expecting security of some sort, safeguarding what had to be an extremely valuable collection. But the only person he encountered was a young, rather plump woman doing the gardening to one side of the path, and she ignored him. It all seemed too…easy. Mihawk briefly considered the possibility of a trap, but pushed the thought aside immediately. It was unlikely, given how recently he had arrived. And in any case, he could take care of anything this soft little town had to offer.

The mansion itself was not especially impressive. It was large, yes—several floors of it towered over Mihawk as he made his way up the front drive—but the style of decoration seemed to him supremely distasteful. Flowery, sculpted pillars lined the veranda and ornate, gilded frames lined the windows, through which he glimpsed pastel wallpaper and oil paintings.

All of this and more served to convince Mihawk that the lord of the mansion was either of dubious masculinity or else victim to his wife's fancies.

Either way, this was not a promising start.

Even so, giving the man the benefit of a doubt, he knocked on the mahogany double doors. These were opened with remarkable swiftness by an old man with an impressively large, pointed nose and a sleek white mustache. By now, Mihawk reacted to the sight of elderly men with instant annoyance, but he managed to keep this in check and introduced himself with as much courtesy as he could muster.

"Dracule Mihawk. Here to speak to Calhoun Rococo."

"The Third," said the old man pleasantly.

"…What."

"Lord Calhoun Rococo the Third is entertaining company at this point. Please return at a later date."

"I'm afraid that's unacceptable," said Mihawk severely, putting one hand on the hilt of his new sword. If the doorman didn't try anything, he wouldn't attack, but he'd had enough experience with old men to know they weren't always harmless.

"Nevertheless…" The doors began to close and Mihawk slammed one hand into the wood, glaring through the gap at the mustached man.

"As pleased as I would be to chop these unsightly aberrations of décor into miniscule shreds, I will politely _request _once more that you let me in."

"…Is that so?"

"_Yes_. I am here to speak with your master about the…about his sword collection." The words felt awkward and wrong in his mouth—_sword collection_. What a useless thing.

"Come tomorrow."

"As I said, _unacceptable_." Mihawk pushed forward and was pleased to find that the old man's resistance offered precious little difficulty. Inside, he spared the fussily-decorated entrance hall a disgusted glance before proceeding down a hallway to his right, the doorman hurrying behind him.

In such a large building, Mihawk knew there had to be at least a hundred rooms. This would, of course, have presented an obstacle, had Lord Calhoun Rococo the Third not been eating dinner. As it was, all Mihawk had to do was follow his nose down the corridor until he reached yet another pair of obnoxious double doors. Beyond this dread portal, the low rustle of voices and clinking dinnerware told him that the meal was already underway.

Mihawk had learned swordsmanship from a variety of different sources, but only Marione du Chapeau had stressed any kind of etiquette. And he hadn't liked her very much.

"Lord Rococo," he said loudly, pushing the doors open with both hands, "my name is Dracule Mihawk and I'm here to make an enquiry about the Kokuto Yoru."

Thirty-six faces stared back at him with expressions of well-bred astonishment, but Mihawk ignored the guests and focused directly on the man at the head of the table. He was wearing an uncomfortable shade of turquoise and there were ornate golden ruffles at his throat and around his hands. Mihawk could appreciate ruffles when used in moderation, but these golden, lacy monstrosities were almost enough to make him lose all patience.

_Persevere…_

"Burston," said the beruffled man, glaring over Mihawk's shoulder at the doorman. "Burston, how on earth did this…person enter my mansion?"

"Through the front door," said Mihawk sharply, before Burston had a chance to answer. "Moving on, I am here to fulfill only one errand, and then I will be on my way. If you comply, I may even refrain from mutilating your silly little house."

"_Mansion_," Calhoun corrected, in a voice that was practically lacquered with condescension.

"I could call it a hovel and experience no great remorse," Mihawk retorted, with contempt so patrician that some of the guests seemed to immediately and involuntarily revise their opinions of his social standing. Some of them even chuckled (or, in the case of the women, tittered). This only served to make Mihawk and his unwilling host further vexed. "Take me to the great black blade."

"I hardly think—"

"_Do it now_ or I will reduce this building to rubble. Is that understood?"

"No!" sputtered Calhoun, half-standing. His cravat glittered and Mihawk, somehow infuriated by the sight, acted on impulse. The straight-bladed sword at his hip didn't perform _Iai _nearly as well as the Eastern swords he had used in the past, but the desired effect was achieved. The blow split the wall to his left open and managed, to his dark delight, to decapitate a cherubic bust on its pedestal. Splinters of wood and scraps of wallpaper scattered across the table, and Rococo's guests went into uproar.

Calhoun himself was apparently not quite as gutless as his taste in fashion suggested; there was a sword at his waist. He was already reaching for it when Mihawk grabbed the back of his collar, dragged him forcefully around the table, and strode out into the hallway once more. A strategically-placed flying strike was more than enough to bring the doorway down in rubble (Calhoun made a noise like an distraught kitten).

"Now," said Mihawk, releasing the Lord and straightening his own black jacket, "do as I say. I do not deal well with impatience, I can assure you."

"…Fine."

_Could his insincerity be any more obvious? _

Mihawk sighed through his nose, hooked one finger under the crossbar of Calhoun's sword, and flipped it neatly out of its sheathe. Calhoun protested only for a moment, and then he saw Mihawk's face and slowly closed his mouth.

Mihawk was starting to regret knocking.

The security over whose absence he'd been concerned earlier had now begun to appear, but they were only twenty men strong at most, and not strong fighters. He dealt with them and left them bleeding on Calhoun's pastel carpet.

Whatever hopes Calhoun may have had of putting Mihawk out of his home were most likely extinguished at this point. Mihawk had expected some attempts to mislead him, but as it turned out, the terror he inspired had overpowered any inclinations toward deceit.

The display room for Calhoun's assortment of swords actually had a passably pleasing aesthetic. Mihawk could approve of red velvet.

And in the very center of the room, in a glass case…

"Is this it?" he breathed, advancing slowly and waiting for some sense of the sword's nature. "The Demon Sword" could hardly be anything like the amiable blade he had lost in Loguetown. The curved black blade certainly seemed to have a malicious aspect to it.

"Well, uh—"

"The Kokuto Yoru?" Still no response from the sword, but maybe… "Is there a key to this?"  
"Yes, but—"

"Never mind." The padlock was large and ostentatious, easy enough to shear off with one strike. Mihawk inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and swung down. The jolt when the blade passed through the shackle was almost imperceptible, but when he again opened his eyes the body of the lock was on the carpet a few feet away.

Mihawk smiled grimly and opened the little glass door, focused all his consciousness on the sword in front of him, and reverently closed his fingers around the hilt.

…_Nothing._

_Absolutely nothing._

"It's like a damned _butter knife_," said Mihawk, releasing the sword. "Is that _it_?"

"Uh, well," said Calhoun, who had apparently not learn his lesson after watching an intruder destroy parts of his house, take down twenty of his guards, and cut through solid metal. "It might…not…be…"

Mihawk rounded on him with terrifying slowness and said with mock calm, "Do you mean to tell me that this…is a fake?"

"The r-real one is on the Grand Line somewhere, on-on-on Deep Island! I went there with a Marine crew once as a passenger but I-I-I saw what it was like there and I know I couldn't do it so I left and I thought I'd—"

"Couldn't do _what_?" Mihawk snapped, kicking the fake Yoru's pedestal over in a fit of bad temper. Calhoun backed away, the picture of abject terror, stammering pathetically.

"W-well, there's always one man w-w-watching over the grave, alright? The grave where the sword is, and swordsmen from everywhere, Marines and pirates and-and-and…just insane people, they all go there and try to k-k-k…"

He came to a halt here probably because of the proximity of Mihawk's sword to his face, and laughed hysterically.

"I thought this was a waste of my time," said Mihawk coldly. "I'm glad you had that information somewhere in your little teacup of a brain, because otherwise you would have proved yourself _utterly _useless. Tell Burston I will see myself out."

* * *

_Swordsmen from everywhere._

_On the Grand Line._

Wouldn't that be the perfect place to meet the strongest fighters in the world, battling for the ultimate prize? Even if there was no official "World's Greatest", he could still encounter some serious contenders for the title.

On his way out, Mihawk cut through the flowery pillars and watched the veranda collapse with great satisfaction.

And now…onward to the Grand Line, once more.

* * *

**Have you noticed how much I enjoy making up One Piece names?  
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**I enjoy it a lot.  
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**I assume some of you are wondering why I would kill off Suma the way I did. Not that I think anyone was especially attached to her, but it is pretty sudden. I can't really explain it, but it was part of the point I wanted to make with the first half of this chapter. It didn't have anything to do with a paranoid need to avoid involving OCs with canon, it just...I dunno. I felt like this was how it needed to happen.  
**

**You guys probably don't remember at _all _what you said last chapter, but I'm still going to drop you all a reply. Do you think perhaps I should stop replying on the ends of chapters and message you back ASAP instead?  
**

**REVIEW REPLIES**

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**SilverRainFalls: The next time Shanks and Mihawk meet, their skill levels will be much closer and that's all I can say... Shanks battled in the new World alongside Gol D. Roger against Whitebeard and Golden Lion Shiki, while most of Mihawk's conflicts so far have been pretty minor in comparison. That's my own fault, of course, but it's a fact. The nice thing is, this gives Mihawk the chance to develop a real vendetta against the kid. So that's my reasoning. :D**

**Yeah, no, Curry never really got through to young Boy with his alcoholic ways... I always think of how he was drinking that glass of wine when we saw him on Kuraigana for the first time, and the face he makes when Shanks gives him that mug of beer. Forget which chapter that happened in, but anyway. Yeah. Also, I've made him permanently anemic, which I _think_ should decrease his alcohol tolerance.  
**

**Thanks so much! Sorry for babbling! XD**

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**lecat: Thanks! Shanks is a blast to write as well-I can't wait to bring him back.**

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**Bisepadi: Thank _you _for this awesome review and for having the manliness to admit to squealing over a fanfiction. ;) I'd actually feel a lot better writing about Robin's past than about Mihawk's, given that we have a better framework for it. But on the other hand, think how depressing it would be... *shudder* I think I might break my own heart writing it.**

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**BlizzardXIII: Thanks! It's hard not to love Shanks. Don't worry, he'll mature and sharpen up a little bit... Right now, though, he _is _only fifteen, and pre-timeskip Luffy was eighteen. By the time Shanks hits that age, he'll be behaving a little differently. Still with the care-free attitude, but less ADHD. XD**

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**Murazor: If you're still reading, I'd like you to know I'm deeply flattered! And I look forward to returning to the Grand Line, where anything can happen...I miss those crazy days.**

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**Phalanx: Thanks so much! I was annoyed at him for leaving the hat too...hopefully he can hold onto his new one a little longer. As for the OCs, I hope everyone else feels the same way about them, because until I start getting into canon, there will be more of them.**

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**dangerverse: Thanks! I guess "update soon" didn't really come true, but hey, Subtlety still lives!  
**

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**TheDML: Heh...Shanks, his "friend for life", indeed! Though Mihawk might not see it that way. XD Thanks so much for reviewing.  
**

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**Kawaiiminnachan: Hope you'll find this again, you anonymous reviewer, you... You've got Curry about pegged, except he isn't as ripped or long-haired as Raleigh. One must wonder whether they would get along, but I'm not going into that. XD  
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**Ah, geez, I dunno... I like deadpan humor, but that side of me _really _comes out for Subtlety because Mihawk is perfect for it. It's so much fun putting such an austere man in ridiculous situations!  
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**For fanfiction, I would recommend Velkyn Karma (far better than me, guys), Y St Ace (whose story "An Officer and Some Gentlemen" partially inspired Mihawk's interaction with Lord Calhoun Rococo), and...well, that's all I can think of right now. I've been out of the loop for a long time.  
**

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**cinnamon-shake: Ah, yes, working at my own pace indeed. _This updated in August last year. _But in my defense, I feel horrible about it. (I mean, thank you!)**

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**rebecca taylor: Good! :3  
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**flappy: Excellent point-glasses do by definition count as headgear.  
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**Dawn of Destruction: Aw, you are _sweet_. I feel like Subtlety is exactly as loved as it should be, but there is always room for another reviewer in my heart! /sappy moment/  
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**Ahem. Oh, yeah, every time they meet each other, there'll be a fight and then Shanks will somehow coerce Mihawk into drinking alcohol of some sort. It'll become a tradition!  
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**No more awesome fight scenes in this chapter, which does kind of suck, but I'm building up to something awesome here. I'm excited! :D Suma, of course... Well, there wouldn't have been any romance anyway. I like asexual!Mihawk best, heh.  
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**See? I post chapters really _really _late so I can...  
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**...well, this doesn't really achieve a positive effect of any sort, does it? *sigh*  
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**anon: When you say "youve written 12 chs of this?", should I interpret that as amazement or horror? Either way, the answer is no.  
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**No, I've written thirteen. :)  
**


	14. Part XIV: Eternity

**BOOM. Told you the road map helped! Thank you all!**

**In this chapter, Mihawk meets some more canon characters-one of them only briefly. I've invented a kind of deus ex machina headcanon which will probably be debunked about the time...the Strawhats reach Raftel. So I've got a while. XD**

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Part XIV: Eternity

_"The difference in men does not lie in the size of their hands, nor in the perfection of their bodies, but in this one sublime ability of concentration: to throw the weight in one blow, to live eternity in an hour." -Elbert Hubbard (1856-1915)_

He was going to need an Eternal Pose.

Mihawk had turned his plans for the journey to Deep Island over and over in his head, and in the end, a Log Pose could only take him so far. (Actually, a Log Pose could theoretically take him all the way around the world, but the point was that it might _not _take him to Deep Island.)

This was a problem.

The one stroke of luck he'd had since his little conversation with Calhoun was that everyone in the town of Sispress seemed to know every detail of the nobleman's journey to the Grand Line. Apparently, he was overfond of telling it (though it was probably a more grandiose rendition than the one Mihawk had heard). Given the man's pompous nature, Mihawk would generally have been inclined to think he was lying, but the genuine terror in Calhoun's eyes when he mentioned Deep Island had been very persuasive.

In any case, it seemed that the Marine ship (designation B-07) still made regular visits to Crest Island. Even more fortuitously, it was meant to return to the Grand Line after its next visit. To Mihawk, used to meeting general adversity in all areas of his life, this seemed suspiciously convenient. He didn't know whether there would still be an Eternal Pose for Deep Island on board, or whether the ship had just come across the island by chance, but there was no way he was going to pass up a chance to find out.

His remaining time on the aggravating island was spent alternately in his coffin and eating small animals that wandered nearby. The only real disturbance came in the form of a couple of small boys, who amused themselves by tapping on the lid of Mihawk's macabre shelter and daring each other to open it.

They were less amused when he pushed the coffin open, sat up, and told them in his most severe voice to _go away_.

They did. At speed. Mihawk, who hadn't smiled (let alone laughed) in quite some time, allowed himself a satisfied chuckle before resuming his repose.

On the day that B-07 was due to arrive in port, Mihawk was there. By now, he had perfected the art of insinuating his coffin into the stacked cargo and sliding into it before the guard could patrol past. And although there was sometimes a couple minutes' arguing about why the black lacquered case wasn't on the ship's inventory, respect for the "dead" generally won out.

Mihawk never failed to wonder at how each and every one of these arguments seemed to end with "Ah, it's probably on a paper that got lost, you bonehead! Just pack it up and we'll find out where we're dropping it off later!"

This time, though, things went a bit differently.

No one had ever _opened _the casket before. Mihawk, to whom surprise was, if not a stranger, at least an acquaintance, was...surprised.

Which is to say, his eyes were open when the lid slid to one side and a thin, dark-skinned, face appeared in his vision.

Mihawk aimed a thousand-mile stare at the sky and tried to calculate how long he could keep this up. By now, he had trained his heart and lungs to respond rationally to situations like this, but this unexpected occurrence had caught him on an exhale. The residual air in his lungs would only last so long…

With his eyes unfocused, Mihawk could only see the man's face as a brown-ish blur, but from what he could tell the Marine had a broad nose and bushy black hair. There was something fundamentally disturbing about any man who would open a coffin just to stare at the corpse inside, and there was a good chance the Marine had seen his bounty poster before. Mihawk forced himself not to tense at this thought.

But fortunately Mihawk's visitor didn't seem intent on staying too long. He yawned once, said, "At least _you're _getting some sleep," and closed Mihawk's eyes with a lazy sweep of one hand.

Mihawk despised being touched at the best of times, and the orbicularis oculis is one of the most difficult muscles in the body to keep relaxed, given that it controls the mainly instinctive action of blinking. But he didn't feel any strong desire to do battle today, and so with an effort he kept himself still.

As darkness enveloped him once more, Mihawk heard the unmistakable gruff voice used by Marine captains around the world telling the unfortunate young man to _"take that thing off your head! It's against regulations!"_

"_Sir," _said the lazy voice, _"the mask helps me sleep…"_

_Unfortunate man_, thought Mihawk, settling back into silk-lined comfort. _He won't go far with an attitude like that…_

He spent most of the voyage sleeping. There was, quite frankly, nothing else to do. When he wasn't sleeping, he was composing sonnets or practicing swordplay mentally. When he couldn't find a good rhyme for the word _delineation _and constant thoughts of battle made him restless, he listened to the heartbeats of the sailors. It was hardly quality entertainment, but it allowed him to get an idea of the patterns the Marines followed daily.

The cargo was stored a deck below the rations, which Mihawk raided once daily for sparse meals of whatever took his fancy. Salted Sea King meat (it had a peculiar, easily-recognizable flavor) was a favorite of his, though how long it would stay that way after two weeks of eating the stuff remained to be seen. At least once—maybe twice—he thought he could hear the brusque officer berating some hapless subordinate for taking more than his fair share. Whether the captain follow up on his threats of whipping and keel-hauling Mihawk would never know—such things took place on the upper decks and they weren't his concern anyway.

The days blurred together; past the confines of his coffin, cargo came and went. More than once a heavy box weighed down the lid of Mihawk's unorthodox bed, but he could easily go a day without eating, and if worst came to worst… Well, he'd never tried a flying strike in such a confined space, but there was a first time for everything.

Fortunately, however, it never came to that and after a short but indeterminate amount of time, they docked at Loguetown. Mihawk had no intention of leaving the ship to visit the city again. Indeed, its only significant effect on him was to inspire a flare of unbridled anger at the thought of Red-hair. _Brat, drunkard, LIAR._

They would meet again. And Mihawk would be stronger this time.

They set out again much later than he would have liked, a consequence of Marine logic-great uncertainty required extreme precaution (for most people, anyway). Mihawk would not have called himself impetuous in any sense of the word, but he tired easily of preparations and warnings.

Eventually, however, the ship was back in motion. Mihawk slept for a few hours, drifting in and out of sleep with the now-familiar rocking of the ship. Memories spilled through his mind, vague and blurred now through the warped lens of four trying years. (Or was it five? No matter.)

_The Grand Line… Reverse Mountain, the freezing air, the—_

_-storm—_

Something in the air, some echo from above must have triggered this recollection. Whatever it was, Mihawk was barely out of his coffin and into the open before the floor jumped beneath his feet. He rolled, finishing in a sturdy three-point stance, and straightened his hat.

It was a moment's work to check the placement of his sword and knife, and another moment's thought told him it was best to ascend. If the ship met an untimely end against the Red Line, Mihawk had no intention of being anywhere near the source of the leak.

And in any case, once they reached the Grand Line, their navigator would necessarily start using Poses for navigation. In other words, there would be no need to search fruitlessly for what could well be a non-existent Eternal Pose; all he had to do was wait for the navigator to reveal the location of his instruments.

_Up it is._

Mihawk had experienced storms in all of the Blues, on almost every sort of vessel imaginable. Even so, he hadn't come near the Grand Line in several years now and even his experienced sea-legs were having difficulty keeping balance. This only served to vex him further as he proceeded gradually towards the upper decks.

When the shouting of the harried seamen became uncomfortably close, Mihawk found a janitor's closet and settled into the undignified little space. This near to the elements, any catastrophic event would be easily audible, even through the closet door. And since the ship's caretaker was unlikely to come looking for a mop at such a crucial moment, he felt at least mildly safe in letting himself doze off.

It proved to be a brief and uncomfortable nap. Mihawk remembered the distance to Reverse Mountain being much longer the first time, but on the other hand this was a Marine ship, not a blacksmith's mangled little craft.

Whatever the reason, it seemed all too soon when the floor tilted forward further…and further…until Mihawk, who had been waiting impatiently for the wave to crest, realized suddenly that they had reached the entrance to the Grand Line.

_I must be on deck._

He barely had time to wonder whether the thought had come from, and then his feet were carrying him towards another ladder. He climbed this with some difficulty, given the angle of the ship, but adrenaline and superior arm strength soon carried him to the hatch separating him from fresh air.

There was a bolt across it, one he could easily have moved, but Mihawk had entered a state of mind wherein doors, walls, and stupid little trapdoors were practically nonexistent. As soon as it had clattered to the floor, Mihawk sprang up through the gap and into the blinding white sunlight at the peak of Reverse Mountain.

In other words, just in time for the ship to drop out from under everyone's feet.

Mihawk was somewhat impressed to see most of the Marines make landings as neat as his, though the novelty began to fade when half of them noticed his presence and started shouting. He couldn't hear most of it—the wind of their speed whipped their words away—but the pointing and running was enough to notify most of the remainder of the crew.

Mihawk counted the guns aimed at him and wondered how many of them would miss him thanks to the wind.

Answer: _not enough to make a gamble on it._

Second question: how many Marines could he incapacitate with a combined _Iai _and flying strike?

Answer: _no clue._

He'd never tried it before, but the combined speed and power could be a fearsome thing. Mihawk bared his teeth in what might have been a smile and lowered his stance. He had to move soon—the Marines would only shout questions at him for so long before—

What were they all looking at _now_?

He turned and saw—

_A black wall._

Mihawk had exactly three seconds to try to process the enormity of the barrier obstructing the Marine ship's way into the Grand Line, and then they crashed into it.

His reflexes sent him leaping into the air just as the impact shivered through the ship. The jump sent him much further into the air than he had anticipated, and he was accompanied in his flight by splintered pieces of wood and flailing marines. To his left he heard a man's voice yell "_Sail-sail_—" and then Mihawk was falling away from the Marine, whose body had somehow manifested great expanses of canvas, which billowed in the rushing air.

Mihawk caught all of this in a moment's observation, though none of it registered deeply because he now had more pressing matters to deal with.

_-Great flailing monstrosity, sea monster?_

_Angle your body, prepare to dive—_

_But the sea—_

_There's something different about the—_

It was frozen.

Again, pure instinct came to his aid; Mihawk had barely realized his sword was in his hand before swinging wildly at the ice rushing up at him. In the exigency of the moment, he barely noticed the frozen shards biting into his skin. A cloud of powdery ice crystals obscured the target of his attack, but even as he braced himself for impact (whether solid or liquid), the great expanse of ice opened up beneath him as a massive black tail shattered it like so much candy glass.

_Not _again, he thought, and then pain exploded in the back of his head and everything went—

Mihawk woke up and said, "I've never even eaten candy glass."

And then he said, "…Hm." Because it was either that or groan in heartfelt agony at his head's throbbing. He tried to sit up and immediately dropped back again with a grunt, watching the darkness behind his eyelids swirl.

_I don't seem to be bound in any way and I sense no killing intent... Still, someone must have pulled me from the water, in which case I likely have some form of company. _

_Wariness would be well-advised._

"I've never eaten candy glass either," said a rough old man's voice. "What does that have to do with anything, brat?"  
Mihawk would have wagered hard money he felt his blood pressure increase at the sound of that voice. It wasn't familiar, per se, but Mihawk had by this point developed an honest dislike of the elderly. Especially those who felt their age qualified them to call everyone else "brat" and "kid" and _"boy"_.

He opened his eyes and scowled at the brightness assaulting them. _Sound of waves, but distant, muffled. Filtering through a barrier? Perhaps I am in a dwelling of some variety, then…_

"I _said_, what does it have to do with anything? Oi, are you asleep again?"

"No," said Mihawk snappishly, and then winced as his skull ached. "_Gh_… I had a sword and a knife on my person. What have you done with them?" This was merely a courtesy, at least in the knife's case. Mihawk felt he could sense its familiar presence with a minute's uninterrupted meditation.

No answer. Mihawk, unaccustomed to slow replies, gritted his teeth and began counting. _One…two…_

_Smells: alcohol, surf…age. _Mihawk couldn't have defined the scent if his life depended on it, but the air had a tang of _oldness_—Calhoun's mansion had reeked of it. Old money, old house.

…_ten…eleven…_

He was lying on a blanket, but beneath it…_ Wooden slats. _And beneath his head, some sort of meager cushion.

…_sixteen…seventeen…_

He was quite certain by now the old man hadn't heard him at all.

…_nineteen, twenty. _Mihawk began to open his mouth to inquire—_firmly_ this time—when he was preemptively interrupted.

"Oi, are you asleep again?"

"I was waiting for _you _to answer!" Mihawk snapped, outraged, and wrenched himself up (headaches be damned) to face his "caretaker".

"Huh! Kids these days just can't take a running gag."

"You only did it _twice_!"

"Exactly. You didn't even let it run."

"Old man," said Mihawk, trying not to be perturbed by the fact that his host appeared to have flower petals sprouting from his head, "if you return my weapons to me in _short order_, I may not dispatch you with them!" _What unbelievable pain…did I strike something headfirst when I fell?_

"You already tried that," said the geezer, unimpressed. "Killing me in your sleep. That's why I took your toys, and since you're wondering, it's also part of the reason why your head hurts so badly. Gave you a stiff right to the temple."

Mihawk gave him a long, impassive stare. _I refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing "how did you know that?" _

"Because I'm a doctor. I know how patients think. Especially stubborn ones like you—handled a lot of those in my day, believe me." It was actually somewhat hypnotic to watch him talk around that broad, protrusive lower lip. Mihawk couldn't imagine the amount of maneuvering necessary to form words with a face like that. It was almost enough to distract him from how utterly irritating he found the old doctor. And what was wrong with his fashion sense, to dress in such a lurid pink shirt?

"I need to get out of here," he said, rather than commenting on any of these things. His sword and knife had to be in the area…

"I wouldn't advise it, if you're planning to set out on the Grand Line," said the doctor dismissively. "You've got guts, I'll give you that, but you'll need more than that to make it out there. You're absolutely _nothing _in the grand scheme of things…in the _Grand Line _scheme of things."

They stared at each other for a while.

"That wasn't funny," said Mihawk."  
"Huh. Kids these days…no sense of humor."

"Would you _stop _that?" Pain was making him easily aggravated. He needed to exit the premises…

"I meant it, brat! On these seas, you mean nothing. Your _life _means nothing. If I'd been in a bad mood today, you'd have died, get it?"

Mihawk stopped in his search for the door and contemplated this. He still bridled at being called "brat"—it was almost as bad as "boy", if not worse—and the anger from that alone should have increased his headache tenfold.

Instead, surprising himself, he smiled and said, "And yet you saved me. I am meant to live on."  
"Another day, at least," said the doctor roughly. "Another _hour_."

"No," murmured Mihawk. He stretched out one hand almost unconsciously to gesture at the blue horizon beyond the window. "On into eternity."

He half-expected some jibe to follow this grandiose statement, genuine as it felt to him. However, the doctor seemed to have nothing to comment on and Mihawk, suddenly at peace, sat back down on the blanket. So fatigued was he that it seemed almost as comfortable as his silk-lined coffin (why people spent so much money on the luxury of the dead, he would never know).

"I am weary," he said slowly, settling back onto the makeshift pillow. "I will set forth tomorrow, should the opportunity present itself."

The last thing he heard before dropping off was a faint, grumbling voice saying, _"Oi, are you asleep again?"_

* * *

Two days might have passed in the time it took Mihawk's head to stop throbbing and his body to feel it had slept long enough. When he awoke, there was next to no change in his general environment save for a great howling of wind beyond the walls and…

…his weapons had been returned. Well, that was peculiar. Mihawk put a hand to either hilt, checking for familiar irregularities and weaving patterns. When both the knife and the sword had proved themselves genuine, he sat up, considering what his next plan of action might be.

"Finally!"

The doctor's face was two feet from his. Mihawk stifled the impulse to draw his knife and press it to the old man's throat, choosing instead to glare menacingly back at the doctor. "…Finally _what_?" He moved surreptitiously away from his rescuer, raising himself into a crouch as he did so.

"Finally you're _awake_." The doctor stood, staring down at Mihawk with the expression of a man whose work is done. Mihawk stood as well, not liking to be looked down on, and found he was at least half a head taller than the other man. The fact instilled in him inordinate triumph, which he quickly dismissed on grounds of extreme pettiness.

"I'll be leaving, then," he said, although his mode of travel was still not apparent. No coffin, no ship on which to stow away…

"My name's Crocus."

"Hm?"

"You heard me," grumbled Crocus, rolling his eyes behind a pair of antique spectacles. "As I was _going _to say, I've met a lot like you in my time—crazy bastards who can't spare a thought for their well-being. Gotten used to helping 'em out over the years, I guess. Probably why I saved your sorry—"

"What precisely does this have to do with anything?" Mihawk prompted impatiently.

Crocus glared, then continued with a more brusque air. "One of 'em—craziest bastard of all, if you ask me—died a while back and left me some of his stuff."

"Oh," said Mihawk, for a lack of anything else to say. He was beginning to think he would fall asleep again if he had to listen to any more of Crocus' ramblings.

(It must be noted here that only a very impatient, tired man could be bored after thirty seconds of "rambling", but I digress.)

"Where are you going before you hit 'eternity'?"

Mihawk began to issue another contemptuous reply of incomprehension, but stopped before his mouth could form the first word. He gave Crocus a long, appraising look and then said, "…Deep Island."

"Is that so?"

"…Of course."  
"You won't last a second," said Crocus. "I think I can find you an Eternal Pose."

Mihawk blinked once and said, "You _think_…you can _find _one?"

"That's what I said."

"Eternal Poses don't grow in clamshells, you realize," Mihawk tried again, but Crocus was already wandering into another part of the house. Mihawk almost started to follow him, but stopped and sat down instead, sure that the old doctor was only trying to get a reaction from him again. Anyway, it was entirely possible that he'd been sarcastic, mocking Mihawk's ambition. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He spent an indefinite amount of time drifting between fitful sleep and puzzling over transportation issues. His first choice would have been to carry on as the solitary traveler, but the Grand Line would likely have no patience for a man in a coffin. He certainly had no intention of stowing away again—the experience had been boring, to say the least. On the other hand, however, it had been more restful than his stay with Molar's crew. Pirates were fundamentally annoying. Marines were fundamentally tedious.

Following personal preference, he would have chosen to stow away again. After all, he hated to be rudely awakened and at least one knew where one stood with Marines. Marines would always treat you as the enemy while pirates, from Mihawk's limited experience, had no qualms about feigning allegiance or _lying_.

But unfortunately—it must have been the Grand Line influencing him, there was no other explanation—personal preference did not seem the right path to choose. Perhaps, Mihawk reasoned, it was because he could convince a pirate crew to take the route indicated by an Eternal Pose, while a Marine crew would simply attempt to arrest him.

And also, he knew on some level, he wanted to see more of the world's people. Perhaps not from close-up or for any great length of time, granted, but Mihawk's gut told him there was honor left on these seas. And he had developed a passing interest in finding it. He was mildly pleased at the thought that most of said honor was probably to be found among true swordsmen. At least, most of those he'd fought in the past had exhibited some sort of integrity.

He had an inkling that Crocus was one of these few honorable men, not that he would ever tell the old doctor so. In fact, Mihawk found his host exceptionally aggravating—even more so because he owed Crocus his life. Part of Mihawk persisted in believing that he would have survived no matter what, but since there was no evidence to the contrary…

What an unpleasant thought! To be so obliged to an irritable, cryptic, unhelpful—

Something dropped onto Mihawk's chest with a soft _thump_. Immediate impressions: leather strap, metal buckle, and cold, curved glass.

He opened his eyes to peer crossly at the offending object, and then propped himself up on his elbows for a better look.

"So you had a Log Pose," he said, raising his eyebrows.

Crocus grunted in what sounded like annoyance—Mihawk shot him a yellow-eyed glare and picked up the Log Pose, which…

…wasn't…a…Log Pose.

"Deep Island," Mihawk read aloud, eyebrows meeting to make a sharp black V. He sat straight up, still staring at the name engraved on the little bronze plaque and trying to decide whether it was fake or not.

"Yep," said Crocus from the other room. He was arranging paper in a small, sandy fire pit, and there was a teakettle next to him. Mihawk opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and went back to studiously examining the Eternal Pose.

"That crazy bastard I was telling you about left me his ship," rumbled Crocus, pulling a packet of matches from his pocket. "It's hidden where even those damned Marines won't find it, and Laboon won't run into it—"

"Laboon?"

"The whale. Don't interrupt! Anyway, this pirate had Eternal Poses for just about any significant island on the Grand Line—over five hundred of 'em. So I went 'n found that one for you, because it's been gathering dust for years now and I know you'll put it to proper use."

"How can you possibly know that?" snapped Mihawk, fumbling to wrap the leather straps around one bony wrist. "And how am _I _supposed to know this is even real? A 'crazy pirate' with over five hundred Eternal Poses… It doesn't sound…" Here he halted abruptly, struck at what he was about to say. "…Never mind. This is the Grand Line, after all." He grinned. "If this doesn't lead to Deep Island, I'll make it there myself somehow. If this works, you have my preemptive gratitude."

"Hn," said Crocus. "You want some tea?"

Mihawk's smile dropped into a small scowl of contempt. "No. I want wine."

* * *

Mihawk spent the next eight days mainly perched on a crag of the Red Line, waiting for pirate ships to pass by. It was an unexpectedly common event—Mihawk hadn't expected the title of the "Great Pirate Age" to ring so true, but there were _lot _of them. So far, however, no particular crew had struck him as anything special. Whenever hunger began to gnaw at his gut, he wound his way back to Crocus' cabin, which the old doctor had apparently built himself on a red stone cliff.

Many things about Crocus were peculiar. Occasionally, when Mihawk was actually bored enough to listen to Crocus' ramblings, certain odd phrases would catch his attention, like, "I actually have another house inside Laboon", and "Marines executing dead men…ridiculous!"

Unfortunately, whenever Mihawk questioned these comments in an attempt at clarifications, Crocus would only give him a long, irate, _isn't-it-obvious _stare. After three instances of this, Mihawk stopped listening _and _asking questions. He hated to be patronized.

All in all, he was more than pleased to leave the doctor behind when the first promising ship passed by.

He chose it mainly because of its appearance. Perhaps this was a shallow basis, but boarding an intimidating and well-cared-for vessel could be a promising start to his journey. It was a unique craft with spiny, fin-like scarlet sails, and even from a distance the crew's general competency was obvious. The helmsman maneuvered with exceptional skill between the frothy waters at the base of Reverse Mountain, and the movements of the men above deck were coordinated.

Of course, the true test of their coordination would come when he landed among them from a hundred feet above them.

Mihawk timed the leap perfectly, relishing the chance to test his muscular control; he had exactly three seconds to do so, the ship rushing up towards him at a rate that would have shocked a normal person. Then he put down his shoulder, tucked his scabbard back for minimum obstruction, and rolled with the ease that comes from extensive practice.

When he popped up, crouching at what was very nearly the center of the deck, he was mildly surprised to find himself ummenaced. To his left and right, crewmen barked orders and tossed each other supplies, some of them even detouring around him as they rushed to their designated worksite. But no guns, swords, fists, or indeed weapons of any kind, were aimed at him.

It would have been less startling if there had, Mihawk decided, slowly standing up. He was sure they could see him—every now and then, a pirate would cast a glance in his direction. But these brief looks seemed mainly unsurprised. In fact, the strongest emotion Mihawk could read from the faces of those crewmembers was…annoyance.

That couldn't be right.

"Oi, Visitor!" snapped someone behind him. Mihawk turned sharply to see a man with spiky ginger hair and large, green eyes staring at him. The pirate jabbed a thumb at the forecastle and said, "Don't just stand there! If you wanna travel with us, you gotta talk to the captain, got it?"

Mihawk, now thoroughly bemused and with nothing better to do, shrugged noncommittally and wandered in the direction indicated.

He had been anticipating a fight, perhaps even hoping for one. Some surprise, at least, would have been normal. A certain stir on board, a drawing of weapons…all of these things were normal for invaded pirate crews, in Mihawk's experience. The total lack of reaction was downright disturbing.

The captain's quarters were below decks, spacious and sumptuously decorated. They were also filled with an incredible amount of mundane paraphernalia. Mihawk would have expected treasure on a pirate ship, and certainly the rugs, wall-hangings, and furniture were admirable. But strewn across the richly-carpeted floor were marbles, silverware, a globe, a bunch of feathers, a broken fan, a number of silver-inlaid fountain pens, at least fifty cheap glass necklaces, a number of filthy teacups, several large, well-polished plates, the skin of some small animal, a circle of small piles of powder…

Mihawk's eyes had rarely been so busy, darting back and forth almost without his consent as his brain tried to process each of the items in turn. Some of the objects were unidentifiable, others simply bizarre, such as the heap of what seemed to be animal bones in one corner.

It may have been his occupation with observation that caused him to disregard the presence behind him until it was almost five feet away. Mihawk disliked people who stood behind him unannounced, and wondered crossly whether it would become a regular occurrence if he stayed on the ship.

He turned around, every muscle in his body preparing for the possibility of battle, and came face-to-face with one of the oddest people he had met so far. He couldn't tell whether the pirate was male or female, and the embroidered strip of red cloth covering her (his?) eyes was unhelpful in clarifying the issue. Above the loosely-fastened, apparently purposeless blindfold was a mop of dark, energetically wavy hair. Below it was a pointed nose and a mouth that smiled with vexing constance. And the fool had wrapped at least fifteen feet of striped scarf around his or her neck and shoulders, which surely had a detrimental effect on combat performance.

He stared at the highly unusual pirate and his…(her?)…escort of five bored-looking lieutenants. They stared back, apparently with nothing to say. The silence continued for almost thirty seconds, with Mihawk growing increasingly annoyed at the state of affairs. Then, finally, the leading pirate spoke with a voice as androgynous as her (or his) appearance.

He (or possibly she) exclaimed, "Chicken, indeed!"

This prompted further silence from Mihawk, who had been prepared to confront the captain (he was almost certain this was the captain), but was now having difficulty summoning a retort. What on earth was going on here?

"You were mostly right, though, Captain Sleeper," said one of the other pirates encouragingly. Mihawk recognized the green-eyed man from before and shot him a sharply inquiring look. The spiky-haired man ignored him, watching Sleeper instead.

"I knew the salt shakers would be unreliable," said the captain, and gave Mihawk an enigmatic smile. "Still, the sword's there and you did fall from the sky. I thought for sure that would be a misreading."

Mihawk decided at this point that he had reached his limit for unexplained nonsense and decided to take charge of the situation. "You," he said, pointing authoritatively at Sleeper, "explain everything. Now."

"Are you implying that I was keeping you out of the loop specifically to torment you?" asked Sleeper, sounding mildly offended. Then, before Mihawk could reply, the pirate added, "…Because it's true."

"…Right," said Mihawk, again somewhat dumbfounded. In the presence of genii, he could carry on a verbose, intellectual debate. In the presence of idiots, he could just draw his sword and make them shut up. This pirate was neither, and it bothered him.

Time to get to the bottom of things.

Apparently, Sleeper had had the same idea, because he or she strode briskly past him towards a small table (bolted down) near the back of the room. Mihawk followed, trying to keep one eye on Sleeper's posse, who spread out to the corners of the room and settled down wherever there was open floor space.

"You have questions," said Sleeper when Mihawk sat down at the table. Then, once again before he could muster a reply, she or he continued, "Well, you'll have to save them for later, because I'm just going to tell you anything. When I'm done, we'll see if I've missed anything."

Irritated, Mihawk itched to counter this with a witty retort, but he felt somehow that it would go unnoticed. In any case, his thirst for knowledge was now almost stronger than the urge to punch the smirk off Captain Sleeper's face. He decided that from now on he would refer to Sleeper using female pronouns, given that knew about as little about women as he did about his new host.

"My name is Puffi Sleeper, captain of the Blind-eye Pirates. I was born with this ability to foretell the future through available media."

"I seriously doubt that," said Mihawk on principle, even though he had no idea what she meant by 'available media'.

"I don't just get flashes of insight, Dracule Mihawk," said Sleeeper with uncalled-for condescension. "I need something to look at, and for some reason a different medium seems preferable each time the mood strikes me. I'm not ashamed to say I can't control it."

"…You can tell the future with these things?" asked Mihawk dubiously, gesturing to the random objects arrayed across the floor.

"Depends on how I feel at the time," said Sleeper (still smiling with an irritatingly knowing attitude). "But usually, yes, I have what I need." She paused then, her mouth almost grimacing. "Though the salt shakers _did _tell me you would have the eyes of a _chicken_. The process can be a little bit…unreliable."

"I see," said Mihawk, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from his voice. "And what else did the…salt shakers tell you, pray tell?"

The bescarfed pirate shook her head with exaggerated disappointment. "You've been on the Grand Line before and yet you don't believe me? Fine. You are a swordsman—"

"Easily deduced."

"—you are an orphan—"

"True of many lone travelers, I'm sure."

"—and you were trained in the art of swordsmanship by an old man named Wasabi."

Mihawk felt his face harden automatically into its usual icy impassive expression. There was cold silence for almost ten seconds, and then he said, "_Curry_."

"Salt shakers," said Sleeper by way of explanation. "Also, your destination is Deep Island. You probably can't guarantee adventure if we follow your Eternal Pose, but this _is _the Grand Line…I think adventure will probably find us wherever we go, and so I shall graciously accept your proposal!"

"I hadn't proposed anything yet," said Mihawk, a sneer tugging at his lip.

"That's the point. You don't need to."

"I won't take orders from you."

"…The salt shakers didn't tell me that one."

"Good to know."

"However, in the interest of your own survival, I suggest you assist the crew when necessary and do battle on our side when the time comes."

Mihawk was no more used to taking suggestions than he was to taking orders. However, in light of the fact that he would be eating and drinking from the Blind-eye pirates' larder, the deal seemed appropriate.

"…Alright, then," he said. "Take me to Deep Island."

* * *

**Okay. We are finally done with setting up this adventure and now action can start happening. Thank you all for being so patient! I see now has an Image Manager function, so I think I'll draw a cover for Subtlety sometime... I need _something _to draw readers in now that the penguins are gone, eh? :D  
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**Again, OCs are fully up to your judgment (my, there are a lot of them!), but I guess I should wait to say that since they haven't been around that long. Please take care of me and the crew of Puffi Sleeper (pronounced PUH-fee, by the way, not like Luffy's name).  
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**Also, Curry may have an indirect cameo next chapter...if I remember. :)  
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**REVIEW REPLIES  
**

**Sir Gar the Bold: Thank you! I've missed Boy/Mihawk too. 3 It's great to be back!**

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**rebecca taylor: ...? Not sure if you were trying to review or if you'll ever read this reply, but all I got was this weird little dash. I dunno. Maybe I should actually send you a message instead of writing this. Hm. Anyway. **

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**TheDML: Hey hey! The map indeed came through! Glad you liked the last chapter.**

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**RxRobin: And I am so happy that you were happy to see it! :D Suma _was_ actually really young, so you're spot on there. I like writing Mihawk destroying scenery and disregarding the laws of society. It's refreshing. XD Thanks!**

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**The Archsage: I've always had a soft spot for the evolution of super powered characters too...I guess that's why I started writing this! :D  
**

**Ah, let's see...Suma's death, I would say, did mean something to Mihawk. It's hard to bring the feelings I want across properly, because I don't want him to be too sentimental, but it's basically like this: she's a bit of an oddball, she irritated him, and he certainly didn't care for her the way the Strawhats care for their nakama. However, she had more honor than the mutinous crew or their captain, and she had potential. The fact that she died because they were disloyal and corrupt was only a part of why he reacted as he did, but it was a large part.  
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**...Urgh, I hate myself sometimes. I should have included something like this in the story instead of having to explain it here! BAD WRITING IS BAD. Maybe I should go back and do a little editing. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and just know that if you forget what happened up 'till now it's totally my fault. XD Thank you so much!  
**

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**Ysaye: "Raising hell" is exactly the phrase (I hope) will describe the next couple chapters. Thanks so much for your support and for reading this far!**

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**Tiramisu30: Phalanx's stories are awesome and I'm humbled to be compared to them. I love fitting canon in with this story! :D Thank you thank you!**

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**Orange205: My pleasure and thank you very much!**

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**vicocq: One good review is more than enough. :D Thanks! Shanks will be showing up more and more as the story progresses, no fear. After all, his duels with Mihawk are apparently legendary, so I want to try to do them justice.  
**

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**Mopman43: Thank you! I miss Curry a lot, but it's rewarding to know people liked him while he was around.**

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**SniperKingSogeking0341: Thanks! Here's some more for you. :D  
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**Yuzen: I was a bit surprised to have updated too! XD Thank you.**

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**ImmortalMelody: Oh, you're being too modest! :D I meant every word. Thank you for reviewing and yes, the hunt for Yoru is totally on! You win epic points for referencing Monty Python. I'll bet Mihawk would have no patience for killer rabbits-he's already spent enough time with the confounding little creatures. XD**

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**Phalanx: Glad to _be _back! Thanks for sticking with me. :D**

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**Awed: High praise! 'Specially since Oda's characters are all so brilliant. And thank _you _for your thoughtful review-this is exactly the effect I was hoping to achieve when I started.**

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**Moo-cow300: Thanks so much! I do try to distinguish myself from the general masses of , though I'm still nowhere near on par with my favorites. Defenestration is an awesome word! Does about a month in between chapters count as "really soon"? It certainly didn't take me as long as last time, I guess...  
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**The Shakespearean words were taken from this deck of Old English Insult Cards I got...in a dollar store or in an Easter basket or something. I really don't remember where I got them, but I gave them to my Freshman year English teacher, so they're gone now. They were fun, though! **

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**TheGodfather93: Thank you! Mihawk's refined vocabulary is one of the reasons why this is so much fun to write. But Shanks is always a breath of fresh air when I'm tired of writing like an old book. XD  
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**SLER: Whoof, double review! I'll say it again, I have no idea why someone would re-read this monstrosity for fun, but maybe it's different when you're not the one writing it, heh... **

**Okay anyway. Your reviews make me so happy! They're so long and nice and they make me want to write more, so here we are. YES. ALL THE MIHAWK-ZORO PARALLEL FEELS. All of them. And no, Mihawk will very rarely be happy again. I'm sorry.  
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**If you print it out and bind it, then I _have _to draw a cover! XD And then I want a photo. I don't know how thick this thing would be...all I know is I'm on about 140 pages, printer-paper size. And just above 99,000 words right now. _And it's not stopping. _Also, Mihawk should have cut off Calhoun's cravat. I can't believe I didn't think of that.  
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**If you read this far, bless your face! If you sneezed reading this chapter, bless _you_. MadRabbit out. See you for Part XV!  
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	15. Part XV: Investment

**Never let a story stretch on this long; work on it constantly, if only little by little. This will reduce the likelihood that you will start wanting to go back and edit it from the beginning. **

**Seriously, if I had no self-control, I would go back to the beginning and start cutting out whole sections, re-characterizing, incorporating my kendo experience into Boy's education... Yeah, a lot of things have happened since I posted the last chapter. It's almost been a year, geez, ugh, I kind of hate myself for that. **

**I can't believe this story has been running as long as it has, but rest assured it's going to finish come hell or high water. Two more chapters, tops. And then I will no longer be tormented by the intervals between them. **

**All I can do is apologize and hope you enjoy this.**

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Part XV: Investment

_"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." -Ernest Hemingway_

He had a millisecond to hear the sword coming before ducking under it and spinning to send a flying strike into his blind spot. Mihawk narrowed his eyes in satisfaction at the resulting scream, and then surged forward at what appeared to be a crocodile man. His blade met resistance at first, and the Zoan laughed gutturally, swinging one heavy, green-scaled hand toward Mihawk. Mihawk spun to one side, drew back, and slashed again with increased power.

Around him, the melee raged on. Everything further than five feet away was obscured by the bright blue fog rising from the waves, and above the brawling pirates sepulchral green flames crackled along the mast and yardarms. Mihawk had almost forgotten Grand Line weather, but his first few days with the Blind-eye pirates had provided several helpful reminders.

At least, he thought, driving his sword through an opponent's mace, it hadn't started raining turtles yet.

(But the journey was young and the universe had a cruel sense of humor.)

"_Ball-o'-yarn Kick!"_

Mihawk dispatched a large-nosed pirate wielding a walking stick and turned just in time to see "Tabby Cat" Isaac slide onto his back and kick his opponent in the gut with such force that the man was propelled at least twenty feet into the air.

"Mihawk, that one's for you!"

More to humor the Cat-Cat Zoan than because the idea of a combination attack appealed to him, Mihawk fired off an arc of bladed air at the airborne pirate. There was no time to watch the spray of blood; four more people were trying to kill him.

Mihawk had initially been bored by the very idea of a pirate war—after all, he was mainly interested in man-to-man combat and there was little room for honor in such a disorganized event. However, the phrase _"...and count ten thousand foes" _had been echoing in the back of his mind for several weeks now.

So here he was. Practicing.

There _was _a certain technical prowess necessary to fight several people at once, like playing four exceptionally fast-paced chess games in the same ten seconds. At close range, however, surrounding opponents tended to leave themselves open to flying attacks. These had quickly become Mihawk's favorite method for dealing with any combatant of greater-than-average skill. Such techniques could also be used to bring down the enemy ship's mast, which tended to cause general panic.

Mihawk surveyed the groaning, blood-soaked pirates lying around him in a ring, and enjoyed the feeling of invincibility.

"Hawk-eyes!"

…_Ugh._

"What." He turned to face Sleeper with no great enthusiasm, making sure to take a few steps backwards simultaneously; whenever she appeared behind someone, she was invariably at least two feet too close.

"They're almost beaten! It's your turn to issue the terms for defeat."

"I don't do _turns_," said Mihawk haughtily.

"I have a bottle of forty-year-old Shedonne in my cabin."

"…Which you will surrender to me, should I perform this unnecessary and humiliating task?"

"Oh yes."

"Done."

Mihawk took two great, light-footed bounds up to the ship's wheel and then turned to overlook the now more subdued fracas below. Sleeper was right—this crew was much weaker than the last, no match for her men. Mihawk would never have said it aloud, but the Blind-eye pirates had earned a little of his respect, if not his fondness.

He inhaled a deep lungful of (apparently harmless) blue mist and projected the announcement so that even those to whom he was hidden could understand him. _"The Thunder Pirates are losing. Get off our ship and give us all your valuables or you will die."_

As the clamor started to die down, Mihawk stepped off his platform and glared down at Sleeper on the deck below.

"Wine. Now."

"It's supposed to be '_In the face of certain defeat, surrender to us your fates and your treasure, as your lives are in our hands'_," Isaac interjected, stepping forward to stand by his captain.

"I could not care less," said Mihawk. "I want wine and then I want to duel a swordsman with skill that rivals mine. So far, the most dangerous aspects of the Grand Line have been natural and that is extremely disappointing to me."

"You at least have to admit that Captain's fortune-telling came in handy _this _time," said Isaac, apparently unconcerned with the low quality of Mihawk's recent opponents. "It would really have been a surprise attack without the captain's prediction!"

Sleeper's crew were just as ignorant as Mihawk as to the gender of their captain, but were apparently unfazed by the fact. Different crew members used different pronouns, and some even switched back and forth at random. Mihawk found it all very bothersome and would really have preferred that Sleeper just tell them. Unfortunately, she seemed to rather enjoy it.

"I have difficulty trusting premonitions that are interpreted from the patterns made in the leftover sauce on someone's plate."

"But it was correct!" said Isaac with an air of affronted loyalty. Mihawk glared at him and then at Sleeper. She shrugged, _still _smiling, and walked away in the direction of her cabin.

At least the wine was good. Mihawk downed it in increments, the bottle in one hand and a small crystal goblet in the other. At the beginning of his stint with the Blind-eye pirates, some of them might have asked him for a cup of their own. By now, however, most of them knew better than to interfere with Mihawk and his Shedonne.

That didn't stop the crew's navigator from sitting down next to him in their post-battle respite, however.

The navigator of the Blind-eye pirates was a dour, sandy-headed teenager named Gator Navi. Either this was purely coincidence or the boy's parents had had quite a sense of humor. It would likely remain forever a mystery; all Mihawk's inquiries had been met with blank silence.

"Any sign of land?"

Gator shook his head slowly, staring out at the distant horizon. "No, but we're coming close. Ask Captain for a reading, see if he can get anything about the next island."

Mihawk didn't even bother to justify this suggestion with a response. He would have thought that the crew would give up on trying to convince him of the legitimacy of Sleeper's predictions by now.

The rest of the Shedonne vanished relatively quickly after that, leaving Mihawk with faint dizziness and nausea. He should have saved it, but he had been waiting for Deep Island for weeks and he wait had begun to make him restless and irritable.

Well. More irritable than usual.

Mihawk tossed the bottle into the ocean and stood abruptly, stretching his stiff back. Gator stared up at him bemusedly, saying, "You going looking for a place to sleep again?"

"Of course."

There was usually at least one given place on board where Mihawk could nap unbothered for a few hours, but the issue was that it seemed to change every day. It was a bother to hunt down a quiet corner, but on the other hand it was far better to make the effort and get some decent rest than to settle down on deck and be tripped over. Repeatedly.

He visited the helm first. The space went unoccupied for a startling amount of the time, especially given the risks associated with the Grand Line, but today the wheel was occupied. The ship's helmswoman was an amiable old lady who preferred to hold a book with her hands and steer with her feet. She was ensconced, as usual, in an enormous, threadbare easy chair that had been securely bolted to the deck. Her bare feet rested on the spokes of the ship's wheel, and today's book… Mihawk spared it a passing glance and grimaced, recognizing the title. He'd heard it quoted far too many times.

The kitchen was no more appealing. Though Gator was absent (he doubled as cook), the table was currently occupied by a rowdy council of crewmates arguing over the division of today's haul.

_Definitely not_, though Mihawk, and slipped back out before they could call him to join in or some other nonsense.

The rest of the ship yielded little better in the way of resting places. In the end, a scowl on his face, his stomach churning a little from the alcohol, Mihawk reluctantly headed fort he captain's cabin. He had no intention of entering the place, but there was a small nook a little further down from the entranceway. It was comfortable sized for a man of his width, and had actually yielded several hours of uninterrupted sleep in the past. However, its proximity to Sleeper's room made it something of a risky choice.

Mihawk dropped off quickly, shoulders wedged snugly between two walls, legs crossed in front of him. It was a deep, sound, uninterrupted sleep-he didn't dream much anymore, or if he did, he remembered very little of them.

Whether or not he dreamed, however, whether he slept a minute or an hour, the rude awakening was enough to make these things inconsequential.

It began with an almighty metallic, ringing clatter, Mihawk lunged forward out of the corner, one hand reflexively drawing his sword and aiming it at the perceived threat.

It was Sleeper. Certainly not a threat, then, thought Mihawk, but he kept his blade leveled at the captain purely out of irritation. There was a great number of brass instruments strewn across the wooden floor, accompanied by two or three conch shells, one leather boot, and a small, bemused-looking orange lizard.

"Not again," Mihawk muttered, looking from Sleeper to the pile of miscellany. But even as he spoke, she had already dropped to one knee and begun to sift through the random objects, talking over him.

The really annoying thing about Sleeper was that she didn't even bother to add any mystique to her clairvoyant act. Her prophecies were infuriatingly matter-of-fact, with no additional wailing or mumbling.

"Well, let's see—an island. Two weeks. Five days." She tilted her head in the direction of a trumpet, frowning, and rolled it slightly towards the wall. Then, face brightening as though this change makes all the difference, she concluded, "Two days. An island. Mm. There's going to be a fight. A big one. And, see, this is you." She pointed to one of the conch shells. Mihawk glared. "You're—one moment—" She moved one of the other shells closer to it, then further away, then picked the first one up and dropped it abruptly on top of the lizard. "Oh! You're going to get shot on an island in two days' time."

"Go away," said Mihawk.

"See, now you've interrupted me and I didn't get the island's name," said Sleeper. "I think it started with an F."

"I don't care," said Mihawk flatly. "I was trying to sleep and I despise being roused suddenly."

"Are you implying—"

"Yes."

"—that I dropped these violently on the floor specifically in order to—"

"Yes."

"—wake you up?"

"I hate you," said Mihawk.

"…Because it's true."

Mihawk sliced the air an inch from the pirate's nose—a warning shot of sorts—and Sleeper seemed to take the message for once. She ambled back into her cabin with a satisfied smile on her blindfolded face, leaving her media on the floor. After a moment, Mihawk tipped the conch over with one toe and watched the orange lizard scurry away. Then, without a second thought about the island whose name possibly started with F or being shot there, he lay back to sleep again.

Two days later, the Blind-eye pirates arrived at Shiranka Island.

"It's the S," said Sleeper, shrugging. "F and S. They do tend to get mixed up."

Mihawk gave her his most unamused glare and vaulted over the side of the ship, landing heavily in a smaller boat waiting below. The boat's occupants exclaimed and protested at the sudden impact and violent rocking, but Mihawk kept his balance and eventually the clamor died down into grumbled complaints.

The journey ashore was an entirely agreeable one, not least because the island's localized climate was pleasant. The air was warm and brisk, indicating that Shiranka was a Spring Island, and beyond the beach of white sand there rose a green hill spotted with beautiful yellow flowers.

Mihawk felt an instant mistrust. In his experience, no land this inviting could possibly be what it seemed. He was already listening for heartbeats when he stepped from the little boat onto the sand, one hand on his sword. In general, attacking another human induced a kind of adrenaline rush, making the attacker's presence easily noticeable.

It was something of a shock, therefore, when he spotted the bullet. Mihawk had improved since his last encounter with firearms, and he unsheathed his sword almost unconsciously, letting his wrist flex just the necessary amount to—

Damn, he still hadn't mastered it yet. The bullet gashed his right bicep, not deep enough to disable him but deep enough to cause serious pain and probably (Mihawk sighed, disgruntled) a decent amount of blood loss.

Again.

To Mihawk's left, Isaac had begun to enter his entirely useless danger mode, which mainly consisted of his hair standing on end and his limbs trying to reassert themselves as tabby-cat feet. To his right, the Blind-eye pirates' explosives expert withdrew her blunderbuss from one bandolier and a handful of small, horrible bombs from a pouch on the other. Mihawk knew they were horrible because he'd seen them dropped down the back of a man's shirt—from fifty feet of elevation, no less, which just goes to show what you are capable of if you try.

Beyond the pyrophile another woman, whose name Mihawk had never learned, let the cords around her wrists uncoil to about two feet, and let the shiny, round black stones hanging from the end of either cord clink together meaningfully. More unpleasant weapons, combining blunt force and the ability to garrote an enemy. Mihawk despised both methods; swords were neater than the former and more straightforward than the latter.

-Let us say that these observations were made within the fraction of a second.

Directly following that infinitesimal passage of time, the presence of humans became noticeable (a little too late, Mihawk thought bitterly), and the sound of guns being prepped for fire echoed faintly over the dunes.

"…Retreat?" muttered Isaac. The second woman looked uncertain, but both Mihawk and the bomber shook their heads, eyes fixed on the shooters.

"They'll probably give some kind of warning first," said the bomber, in a voice that was gravelly from years of inhaling chemical smoke.

"I think they _did_," snapped Mihawk, gesturing to his bleeding arm without taking his eyes off of their attackers. "I'll take the ones on the left, you can look after the ones on the right, and then we'll—"

"Excuse me, who's the first mate here?" snapped Isaac. "We should get reinforcements! They have guns!"

"So do I," volunteered the bomber, swinging the shiny muzzle of her blunderbuss to her left. Mihawk and Isaac both stepped instinctively out of its way, just as a round of gunfire crackled above them and a line of bullets struck the sand three feet away with an inauspicious _piff piff piff _sound.

There was silence for a moment.

"…Alright," said Isaac, "They're not trying to kill us, then."

Mihawk was about to protest again—his arm was burning now—but thinking back, insofar as he could remember, the bullet's original target had not been a vital area. This could simply be a sign of bad marksmanship, but any gunman who could so totally calm his breath and heartbeat before a shot could hardly be unaccustomed to shooting.

"Well, I'll be!" said Isaac with sudden, bizarre cheer. He stepped forward, waving courteously at the welcoming committee. Another shower of bullets peppered the ground near his feet, but he paid this no apparent heed and shouted, "We've found ourselves unwelcome a great many times, but usually the attempts to kill us are a little more enthusiastic! You've nothing to fear from us…we're simply here to resupply and—"

"_Leave!" _

And, immediately, Mihawk knew something was wrong. He thought that maybe the others had heard it too; the voice was not simply belligerent or fearful. There was an unmistakable note of despair in that single word.

He instantly, inexplicably knew it to be true and if the furrowing of Isaac's brow was anything to judge by, so did Isaac.

"What's wrong with this island?" asked the first mate, hands akimbo, glaring up at the locals.

"_Just go back to your ship and leave right now! There isn't much time!"_

Mihawk felt the familiar thrill of apparent danger (or maybe it was just the light-headedness of anemia). Time to enter the conversation. "Until what? What threat is so horrible that you would even spare pirates an encounter with it?"

"_That's our business, now GO!" _The speaker actually stood up and came forward, revealing himself as a slender young man in a plain brown suit. From this distance, it was readily apparent to Mihawk's eyes that he was terrified.

_But not of us_, he thought. And that _was _strange, because despite how small the Blind-eye crew was, their cumulative bounty was not unimpressive. Surely news of them would have reached this far by now…

He opened his mouth to inquire further—and more forcefully—but Isaac cut him off, stepping forward again with an odd look on his face. "

"…Will one of you come and speak to me? I promise that we will return to our ship afterwards!"

There was a moment of hurried congress beyond the dunes. Mihawk's hearing was nowhere as acute as his vision, so only small, insignificant pieces of conversation were audible. Eventually, however, the brown-suited man strode down onto the beach with long, jerky strides and Isaac went to meet him.

After a minute of talk, it became evident that this was no brief discussion, and Mihawk dropped to the sand for a nap. The bomber, whose old white shirt was already quite tattered, tore strips of cloth from the hem and handed it to him wordlessly. Mihawk accepted it, also wordlessly, and began the to tie it into a tourniquet. As it had to be wrapped above his wounded upper arm, this proved to be a long and irritating task.

By the time Isaac had finished, however, the bleeding had slowed and another strip of the bomber's shirt was cinched around the wound. Mihawk, faintly suspicious, wondered whether her shirts commonly served this purpose, and exactly how far she would be willing to decrease this one's coverage before finding a new one.

Isaac's face was grim, his eyes narrowed. He took many things too seriously, but this time he might be worth listening to for once. Mihawk slowly got to his feet, ignoring the way his head spun.

Isaac nodded to the three of them as he strode past. "Back to the ship."

There was an instant outcry, but it was a brief one. A glare that refused all argument cut it off. "We need to consult with the captain," said Isaac brusquely. "Until then, _do as I say_."

Mihawk disliked following orders, but he had no interest in attacking people without killing intent, and therefore no reason to argue.

The occupants of the boat were silent on the way back save for the occasional grunt from those manning the oars. (Or perhaps womanning in the case of the starboard rower, who happened to be the bomber.) Sleeper was waiting for them when they boarded, an odd expression on her face. Not that this was saying much, in Mihawk's opinion, because most of her expressions were odd.

"Well?" she said, glancing at Mihawk's bandaged arm. He immediately shifted so that it was out of sight. Not that she should have been able to see it anyway, with all that cloth over her eyes. Yet another bothersome thing about a bothersome pirate.

Isaac hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the rest of the crew as they gravitated towards him with expressions of mild interest.

"…Captain, they fired upon us, but we have determined that they did not aim to kill. Rather, they wished to ward us off and spare our lives from some even greater danger."

"Do they know who we _are_?" said the helmswoman's disbelieving voice.

"They knew we were pirates," said Isaac gravely. "That's why they fired, or so I was lead to understand. They thought there was no better way to make us leave."

A murmur of understanding ran around the circle. "Only fair," said Gator. Mihawk shook his head ever so slightly.

_Pirates_.

Sleeper still wasn't satisfied. "Well, I'm all ears, Isaac. What was this great danger?"

"More pirates," said Isaac bluntly. "A fleet of five ships, all full of named, bountied men and women. This is a hospitable-looking island, especially for the Grand Line, and a hospitable little town makes excellent bait. It has the protection of this fleet and the pirates benefit from plunder gained from slaughtering visitors."

"Clever, but not something I'd be interested in doing," said Sleeper. "Does that mean we've arrived just in time for a glorious revolution?"

Isaac nodded once, eyes still fixed on Sleeper's face—this could have been the last word, but it was clear from the remaining tension in the air that the discussion was not over.

"…Five ships?" said the bomber, frowning.

"Five ships."

"Do we know any of the bountyheads?"

Isaac scratched his head, eyes rolling up in an obvious effort to remember. "That would be… 'Blackjack' Davey, 'Lion Man' Mamfado Makasu, 'Diamond-shoes' Poru Saymon, 'Alligator Rock' El Tonjon—"

Mihawk had an extensive knowledge of pirate swordsmen, but none of the names making the Blind-Eye pirates shake their heads so gravely were ringing any bells.

"I still have scars from the last time we came up against Lion Man," groused the helmswoman. "Tell me they don't have his sons as well."

"That's not relevant," Sleeper said easily, waving one hand. "We know the enemy; now all that remains is to cast a vote on our course of action."

The ship's rigging expert removed his bowler hat ostentatiously while Sleeper pulled an enormous handful of pink, lacy stationary paper squares from one voluminous sleeve. Gator slid his satchel off one shoulder and started passing out quill pens and pencils. Mihawk somehow found himself in possession of a pink lacy square and a drawing compass with a blunt piece of lead in one of its legs.

"On the subject of returning the good will of the townspeople," said Isaac in his best I Am Making an Announcement voice, "Aye or nay, and drop your votes in Canbass's hat."

"A pirate democracy?" Mihawk muttered to Sleeper as the crew settled down on deck to write their answers.

"They might die," she said, shrugging lopsidedly. "It's a risk that comes with the job, but this could spell obliteration for all of us."

"I thought pirates who picked their fights were considered cowards."

Sleeper tightened the scarf around her eyes and cast a set of five-sided dice on the floor. "That depends on what fights they pick, wouldn't you say? I'm starting to think you haven't gotten to know us well at all."

Mihawk conceded mentally that he had never had any interest in doing so. He let his unfilled ballot fall from one hand while around him the pirates crowded around Canbass with folded pink squares.

* * *

"You didn't vote."

"My decision depended on the outcome of the crew's choice. I have no personal investment in a crowd of pathetic farmers waving their sickles at five ships' worth of deadly pirates."

"But you have investment in us?"

"I have investment in honor."

* * *

While most of the village evacuated to higher ground, there were a few pathetic farmers who weren't quite as pathetic as Mihawk had expected. The marksman who had fired first, for instance—he was a dark-skinned, middle-aged man who had learned to slow his heartbeat and breathing without the aid of a Devil Fruit. There was a family of five called the Karjaki Clan whose bonding experiences over the years had apparently revolved around learning to kill people bare-handed.

For the most part, though, the revolutionaries were predictably ill-prepared for conflict. From what he gathered, they had even intended to announce their intention to revolt to their oppressors before doing so. Mihawk himself was fond of some degree of ceremony, but even he could see this was not the time for it.

Isaac, Gator, and Sleeper were discussing strategy with the remaining local fighters. Mihawk, who had settled unobtrusively nearby, tried to keep himself from looking sour every time his name was mentioned.

"Are they likely to fire on us?" Isaac asked the head of the murderous household. She shook her head, glancing at the ocean.

"They always send a small party ashore to do the dirty work…there may be more this time, though. They've been watching and they probably know at least that you're fellow pirates."

Isaac wrinkled his nose. "I understand the sentiment, but _fellows _with a bunch like that…"

"You seem similar enough to me," said the Karjaki matriarch coolly. "Ragtag brawlers somewhere in a gray area of morality…the decorated ship, the ratty black flag—"

"I'll have you know there are _no _rats aboard this ship!" snapped Isaac, rapping off the words with a speed that made the retort seem almost involuntary. There was a moment of silence in which someone giggled, and Isaac's face colored slightly. He settled back down on the sand, coughing genteely into one fist. "Ahem—what, then, do you suppose they will do after they realize we're fighting back?"

Karjaki shrugged. "They might fire once or twice, but if we retreat beyond their range the captain is likely to grow impatient and send a first wave of pawns."

"If we can target their boats—" Isaac started, but Karjaki was already shaking her head.

"They don't need boats. They have a road-road man."

"Damn. How broad of a path can he make?"

"Broad enough for a cart, and he can split them into multiple paths."

Gator and Isaac grimaced in unison. Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Well, then…we can still pick a few off before they reach the shore, and if they're not named and bountied, we could have a shot at beating down over half before they've sent their lieutenants. I'm sorry, Lady Karjaki, but could you ask one of your sons to find that rifleman—uh, Samson, wasn't it?"

"I'll look for him," said Karjaki, already turning away. "He is not an easily-found man."

"Alright," said Gator slowly, spreading out a map of the coastline, "we need a list of our long-range hitters."

"Faxia," Isaac said immediately, counting on his fingers, "and Bleedish is mid-to-long-range, we can use him… Does Delburn still carry that horrible crossbow?"

Gator nodded distractedly, tracing the outline of an inlet with one finger. Isaac grinned. "Excellent. We can find him some fuel and put him to work on a clifftop somewhere. And then there's Hawkeyes and his flying strike…"

Mihawk hardly bothered to disguise the scowl tugging at his mouth. Isaac and Gator, absorbed in their respective activities, seemed not to notice, but Sleeper…

"Teamwork not your glass of wine, Hawk-eyes?"

"I…prefer independence," he said, glaring and wondering how she could have noticed with her back to him.

Isaac shook his head slowly (Mihawk tensed involuntarily at how utterly patronizing the gesture was). "Believe me, I've noticed. But you're one of our heaviest long-range hitters. If you're going to stay and help us, the least you can do is cooperate by thinning the ranks before they close in."

"I assure you," said Mihawk, "that is hardly the _'least' _I can—"

He was interrupted by an inconspicuous motion. Sleeper, who had been slumped over, sat upright with a short but violent shock and sat there, trembling with some painfully-restrained energy. Gator and Isaac stared alternately at her and the ship, eyes flashing worriedly back and forth. Mihawk recalled with disinterest that most of her fortune-telling paraphernalia was still aboard.

"Captain, do you need—"

"I can run and get—"

"No!' Sleeper raised one shaking arm and turned it slowly back until it pointed, at an unnatural angle, in Mihawk's direction. "Hawk-eyes. Your. Sword. Please."

Mihawk recoiled instinctively, one protective hand going to the sword's hilt. "I wouldn't consider giving it to you even if you _weren't _likely to use it for your ridiculous charades!"

"_Now._ It could—be—relevant—" Sleeper's voice was almost guttural with effort.

Mihawk stared, frowning, unconvinced. "You think it might tell you something about the battle? I should think you'd prefer to know less about that in advance. If you predicted all our deaths, that would just make the situation more hopeless than it already—"

Sleeper turned to face him. It was a full-body movement that she almost threw herself into, the sand beneath her flying. Without even standing, she was suddenly face-to-face with him, one hand jerking the blindfold away from her eyes.

"_Dracule Mihawk_," she said, in the voice that made Mihawk wonder whether the crew members using male pronouns were closer to the truth, "_we would not surrender at the prospect of death. Do not look down on our resolve."_

Maintaining eye contact, Mihawk slowly reached down and drew his sword, offering Sleeper the hilt. In one motion, she replaced her blindfold, snatched the sword from his hands hurled it forcefully across the beach, threatening to cut several of his fingers off in the process. Mihawk sprang to his feet, uttering several popular pirate swearwords as well as a few that hadn't been popular for at least a century. The sword skidded over the sand, eventually hitting a rock (Mihawk winced) and bouncing upwards. It came to land with its point buried in the ground, hilt pointing to the sky.

Mihawk had no time to wonder at the improbability of this; his mind was full of nicked edges and scratched steel and how long the damned sharpening process was going to take. He put on an undignified burst of speed running to retrieve his sword, and barely kept himself from kicking Sleeper on the way back.

Isaac, apparently unconcerned by the inappropriate use of bladed weapons going on in his immediate vicinity, was staring in awe at Sleeper. "Well, captain? Did it…what did you see?"

Sleeper paused for a moment and then shrugged. "It would seem as though Hawk-eyes was right. Every last one of us is going to die in this battle."

Mihawk glared, unimpressed. Gator and Isaac glanced at each other, wearing the same unreadable expression. After a long, tense moment, Gator said, "…Was that it?"

"That was it," said Sleeper.

Isaac's face acquired a certain thoughtful aspect. "Nothing about how many we take down with us, then?"

"No mention."

"Okay…" The cat-man stood decisively, turning to address the gathered pirates nearby. "Lads and ladies, Captain Sleeper says we're all to die here, so let's aim for all-round obliteration!"

The roar of assent that greeted this peculiar proposal was neither a battlecry nor a cheer but somewhere in between. The volume of the chatter around them seemed to rise several notches, taking on an energetic quality that one would not normally associate with a death sentence.

"Fanatics, all of you," muttered Mihawk, running one careful hand down the flat of the sword in search of abnormalities.

Five hours later, he took his place in the dusky forest along side the Blind-eye long-range specialists, watching five ships approach steadily through evening mist.

"You're gonna like this, Chickenboy," said the helmswoman. "The natives say these bastards have a count of at least a dozen swordsmen."  
The helmswoman's combined age and cheek had severely lowered her standing with Mihawk. He said nothing. Around them, night fell.

Mihawk had been curious to see whether the first small group would be as easily defeated as Isaac seemed to expect. As it turned out, the Karjaki Clan easily dispatched the invaders sent to do the "dirty work", as the matriarch had so delicately put it. There were a few distant screams from the general direction of the village, and a minute or so later the family reappeared one by one, each cleaning their hands with dark clothes. Whether the cloths had started out as dark was a question Mihawk had no interest in pondering

While the Karjaki parents indulged in a moment of embarrassingly matrimonial behavior, the first wave of real attackers came rushing across the sea on roads only visible by a certain glassy flattening of the water.

Isaac cursed and abruptly began shouting out orders, hair standing on end in a halo of ginger and developing brown stripes. "I was not expecting this," he growled, pointing to Mihawk and five other crew members in turn. "All of you out! Thin the ranks as much as you can! Snatchbat, you're our fastest—run and signal Delburn to get started!"

"I thought I was supposed to do that when—"

"When they started firing their guns on us, yes, that was the idea, but they're not _doing _that!" He turned to the Karkjakis and the rifleman. "Their captain must really want you to suffer."

"Oh, we knew that," said the rifleman softly, and stepped forward to stand beside Mihawk. "You'd better get going, boy. Wide-range damage and then precision, right?"

"That's right," said Sleeper serenely from behind them. "They'll slow down after a broad barrage, and then you can start picking them off. Bleedish, Daedelus, Faxia, all of you as well."

Mihawk had heard the name Daedelus said, and seen the man before, but never put the two together. He and Bleedish (the bomber) were generally mentioned in the same context, usually a very violent one, and it was no wonder. Daedelus was a flint-man who snapped his fingers to light his own explosives. Apparently the two spent a lot of time in competitions, and Mihawk had somehow found himself unable to avoid hearing all about these.

Now they both stepped forward, readying their respective weapons and eyeing each other. Mihawk, who had no time for incendiary rivalries, decided to take initiative. He took a deep breath, savoring the open space he had to work with—on a ship, flying strikes had to be contained, controlled.

Time to see what brawling experience had done for him.

Two quick, perfectly precise slices took out swathes of pirates to the north and south, greenish flares of cutting power biting into their ranks. The damage was not as great as Mihawk had hoped, but the distance was formidable. He allowed himself a moment of pride before a sparking keg and a shower of firesticks arced over his head, each propelled by intimidating arm-strength. To his left Faxia, a flash-flash man, slammed both hands on the ground, sending white sparkles racing away from one grain of sand to another and then into the water. In the surf, the tiny points of light finally ignited into blinding bars of light amongst reeling mass of invaders.

The Blind-eye pirates who had for this instant been true to their name, removed their hands from their eyes and returned to watchful alertness.

"That's their night-vision gone," said Sleeper happily as the rifleman and Longbow (conveniently named after his weapon) took their places.

"They know we mean business now," said Gator over the crack of the gun and the hum of the bowstring. "They're sure to have fliers somewhere on those ships; they'll be coming over to draw our fire away from their men on foot."

"In the end," said Sleeper, "they will reach us and we'll be forced to discard long-range tactics."

"Is that a prediction?" asked Mihawk coldly, stepping forward for another flying strike as the rifleman and Longbow reloaded their respective stocks of ammunition.

"Not one I need my powers to make," said Sleeper blithely, and then, with a little more alertness, "Ah, that's Delburn. Eyes covered again!"

A scarlet streak of fire arced from a clifftop to the north, cutting through the night and dying abruptly in the ocean.

_Missed_, thought Mihawk, and then a patch of sea exploded into a wash of flames with a thick, oily _whumpf. _He blinked furiously, despising even this temporary absence of sight.

"_Airborne!" _shouted someone and immediately there was a clamor of shifting weapons and shouting voices.

"_Looks like two or three bird Ability Users and one—no, two people on some sort of flying device."_

"It's a broomstick," said Mihawk, the green glow finally dissipating from his vision.

"If you can see that well, Hawkeyes, I want you to fire off a shot at them when they're within range!"

"Seconded," said Lady Karjaki uneasily, staring at the darkened sky. "Don't give them a chance to drop anything on us. Doesn't your crew have any fliers?"

"Sadly, no," said Sleeper, who was slowly unwinding her scarf. "But I like to think we make up for that. Ready!"

Everything happened in a moment; the broomstick riders fell, bleeding, with a flash of Mihawk's sword, a bundle of feathery limbs crashed to the ground nearby, entangled in a loop of Sleeper's scarf, and a rain of feathers like steel blades sank into the earth all around. Mihawk barely dodged three aiming straight for his chest and spun to see the third Zoan plummet, clearly with the intention of dive-bombing, and have the misfortune of choosing Daedelus as his target.

Flint is not easily injured by blunt force. The Zoan fell away from a rather bemused Daedelus and Mihawk turned his attention back to the final enemy to see it executing some impressive evasive maneuvers; with every weapon in the area trained on it, there was no time for projectile pinions.

There was a sharp whistle, its source invisible, and for an empty, breathless moment all attacks ceased. The Zoan drew back its wings in a triumphant gesture…and then the helmswoman leapt from a nearby tree and landed on its back.

Mihawk considered cutting the enemy out of the sky while it was distracted, and possible consequences be damned. He decided against it because firstly, no one else knew how to do the helmswoman's job, and secondly the rest of the crew would complain if they had to unbolt that stupid chair from the deck.

Anyway, there was something entertaining about the sight of an eighty-year-old woman wrangling a fearsome, steel-feathered Zoan into submission. And indeed, after some flailing and bucking and trying desperately to gain altitude, the third Zoan dropped like its fellows.

In the relative calm that followed, Mihawk took stock of the situation: the bladed feathers had caught Gator through the foot, and two had struck one of the Karjaki girls in the shoulder. Two Blind-eye pirates who had been standing near the broomstick riders' landing place were on the ground now as well, twitching faintly. There was a green haze hovering the bodies.

Down below, the first wave had reached the shore.

"Same tactics as before until they're within mid-range," said Isaac grimly. "Anyone using ammo, _do not waste it_. I know it can get harder to—"

"Shut up!" snapped Longbow, sighting down one arm.

"I told you we could deal with the pawns," said Gator's voice behind Mihawk. Lady Karjaki grunted, apparently unimpressed.

"That just means their lieutenants will come faster," she said. "They're not the type to be picked off so easily."

"We _know_," said the helmswoman sourly. "We've run into most of them before. Speaking of which…does anyone else hear banjos?"

There was a moment of silence save for the groaning of the wounded and the ambient noise of battle…and out in the darkness…

The sound of faint strumming.

"Damn and _blast_," said the helmswoman. "He did bring his sons. Get ready, children, here come the big guns."

* * *

As Sleeper and Isaac had stressed, long-range attacks were not applicable for much longer after that point. The full forces of five ships are not a threat to be taken lightly, especially when the leading powers are all bountied over a hundred thousand. Mihawk still had no intention of letting Sleeper's morbid prediction prove true, but there was some supporting evidence.

The battle was spread out among the trees, in darkness that was never quite complete with the constant flashing of explosives and unnamable powers.

The scope of the battle was beyond any of Mihawk's previous experiences. There could have been fifty bountied swordsmen among the enemy, and he would not have had time to seek them out or even recognize them as such. There was no respite, no pause to catch his breath, and barely any time to distinguish between friend and foe. More than once he turned to cut down a presence behind him, only to realize it was a comrade (for want of a better word).

Matters were not improved by the rough terrain, which grew increasingly rougher with the addition of uncountable prone bodies. Mihawk soon gave up looking down to find out who he had stepped on—or what he had stepped _in_. The world was a blur, a cacophony of action and unearthly noises. Occasionally a Devil Fruit user's voice could be heard above the clamor, followed generally by some unearthly noise and accompanying screams.

Mihawk fought on. He fought until he was no longer a man with a mind, or even a man with a sword. All things were one; mind, sword, and body. It was a delicate, unconscious balancing act. Time was no longer relevant. Even when fatigue finally began to affect him, the burning in his limbs was only a distant sensation.

After a while, a timeless interval, he noticed off-hand that the sun was beginning to rise and…there were less pirates surrounding him than there had been. In fact, in his immediate vicinity there were only five. Beyond this tattered circle of aggressors, the lingering sounds of battle were faint. And even as the five pirates edged closer, two of their number fell, on with a scarf cinched around his throat, the other with a knifehand protruding from his chest.

Mihawk dispatched the remaining three in a fit of pique before any other "rescuers" could arrive.

"Tired, Hawkeyes?" asked Sleeper cheerfully as her victim slowly ceased to struggle.

"No," said Mihawk, glaring. But the sense of perfect balance was fading even as he spoke. Every muscle ached, and when he tried to step forward over the frothing pirate, he almost tripped.

"Nonsense," said Sleeper a little less convivially, "we're all tired. We've won. Get some sleep."

"Don't take orders from…" said Mihawk, and collapsed onto the ground.

* * *

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to," said Sleeper smugly.

"_I _believe it," said Isaac nearby. Mihawk scowled at him, although by now this did little more than amuse the nearby Blind-eye pirates.

"Why can't you just admit that your predictions are faulty? Even _you _would not be so capricious as to lie to your men about their death en masse!"

"Wouldn't I? If I was already assured of their survival, wouldn't I?"

"She would, though," Bleeder said helpfully. Mihawk didn't even bother to glare. Around them, the smell of the ocean mingled with the savory aroma of a cauldron of stew brewing in the kitchen. The helmswoman, who had temporarily left her armchair by the wheel, settled down on the deck with the rest of them, one hand absentmindedly going to the stump of her right upper arm. So far, her only complaint about the injury had been that it made reading something of an ordeal.

"If you're so fed up with us, you could just find a different crew," she said, waving the halved limb in Mihawk's direction. "Next time we end a battle on even terms with the other bunch, you could jump ship to them."

Mihawk didn't answer; there was no way to phrase his reasons for staying with the Blind-eye pirates that wouldn't come across as overly-sentimental, and sentimental he certainly was not.

He was…invested in honor.

* * *

_Two months later_

Captain Puffi Sleeper stood on the deck, surrounded by crewmates, all of them staring after the small, dark boat making its way persistently towards the black sand of Deep Island.

"…Did you tell him?" asked the first mate quietly, eyes not leaving the "him" in question. Sleeper's mouth quirked into a strange half-smile.

"He wouldn't have believed me anyway. I almost wish we could stick around and watch, but we wouldn't want to be in the area when they meet. The collateral will be truly impressive."

"And we have places to be," Isaac added. They kissed once, in a rather businesslike way, and went back to issuing their respective orders.

And thus Dracule Mihawk parted ways with the Blind-eye Pirates.

* * *

**General self-dislike over the wait aside, I'm actually okay with this chapter. And I have fairly high hopes for the next chapter, too. **

**I will address questions, concerns, and recent reviews only. Some of you have probably not looked at this fic in the almost-year since the previous chapter, and I'm sure you don't remember what you said. Know, however, that I am deeply deeply grateful for your feedback and kind words, and I wish I could be the author my reviewers deserve. SLER, Sir Gar the Bold, Phalanx, Ysaye, TheDML, ImmortalMelody, so many other regulars, new readers and old...I hope I can give you a punctual and enjoyable Part 16 if you're still reading now and in the future.**

**REVIEW REPLIES**

**Lily Noir: Ah, you commented back in December! Not that long of a wait for you then, comparatively. Let's start here. **

**Oh, man, I didn't even think about Aokiji's chronology! Well, I suppose that part doesn't necessarily have to be read as a reference to him... -_- But I can actually say that yes, you're spot on, I intentionally started with a slightly different personality from the one Mihawk has in canon. :) It's not often I can say I did something like that on purpose, heheh...**

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**VheeriTheSuccubus: Sadly yes, as much as I try to keep it real here there are plenty of real-world issues that are ignored. However, as you say, bloodloss in One Piece never seems to be come that much of a problem. I actually get a lot of my names from english words put into a kind of bastardized katakana style! Of course, that might be painfully obvious in this chapter. I was running out of ideas, so sue me... ;p**

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**Andelevion: Thank you! Sometimes I forget people actually like this story still and I'm glad you're enjoying my big Mihawk headcanon mashup! And my OCs, of course, always a sensitive subject because they're such a gamble. The affirmation means a lot! I've been wavering on bringing Curry back, but even if I don't I still want to write a couple drabbles about his life. Thank you again so much!**

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**alynawatlovers: I'm honestly not sure how so much discworld ended up in this story. Something about the dry humor that fits Mihawk best seemed to demand it. XD Garp actually hasn't appeared yet, but as mentioned above, Aokiji was there...anachronistically. :/ I'm glad you also enjoyed Curry, and don't worry, there will be more Shanks soon! **

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**Next chapter will of course take place on Deep Island, with the introduction of a very important character and yet another epic battle. There may even be a timeskip. **


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